The Haunted Vagina by Mellick III Carlton

Author:Mellick III, Carlton
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Eraserhead Press
Published: 2011-07-27T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINE

Stacy’s gone before I wake up.

We didn’t set the alarm. I already missed the bus.

Downtown, Donut really lays into me for my freshly shaved head.

“I’m part Jewish,” I tell him.

“So was Adolf Hitler!” he says.

I give him the rest of my Honkin’ Huge Burrito so he’ll leave me alone. Too sore, too hungover, too late to mess around.

When I get to the call center, sit down at my computer station as if I’m perfectly on time rather than two hours late, I realize that I really shouldn’t have bothered coming in today. I still reek of sex, even after showering. My head is pounding. I look like I’ve gotten into a fight.

“You look horrible,” Chaz says to me, his pants pulled above his belly button.

He’s the insanely hyperactive portly guy who always invites me to karaoke parties.

“Yeah,” I tell him.

“Looks like you’ve been skateboarding,” he says. “I was a pretty good skateboarder in junior high. We should go skateboarding sometime.”

“Sure,” I tell him.

He just stands there smiling at me, shifting his weight from side to side. I ignore him, turn on my computer and log into the queue. I can hardly move my fingers. They are swollen. Dirt crammed under my fingernails. The large scab in my palm making it difficult to close my hand. My fingers are very pale, except for the fingertips which are dark red for some reason, like I’ve cut off the circulation at my knuckles. The discolored skin feels odd. It’s not really sore, but very sensitive when I type on the keyboard.

Chaz is still standing there, fidgeting with something behind my computer.

I dial Stacy’s work before a customer can call. Her friend Lisa tells me that she never came into work today. She had called in sick. She wondered why I didn’t know.

It’s the hardest day of work since the time I drank a fifth of Jack Daniels the night before and came in with only three hours of sleep.

Stacy isn’t there when I get home. There are grocery bags on the kitchen counter. A note saying she’ll be back later. I take another shower. Try to wash the dirt out of my fingernails, without much luck. My reddened fingertips are extra sensitive under the hot water. Yeah, they’re bruised up pretty bad. They’ll probably hurt even worse tomorrow, and that shitty call center job requires fast typing while the customers are on the line. Screw them.

I eat a Hot Pocket and wait around for Stacy to come home, but get tired of sitting on the couch watching awful standup comedians on Comedy Central who talk more about their lame political views than tell jokes. I walk to the bedroom, my feet sticky against the skeleton residue, and go to sleep.

I hear Stacy come home at about three in the morning. I get out of bed, wondering where the heck she’s been. She has a bunch of shopping bags that fill the living room floor.

“You’re going back in,” she says.

I don’t think so.

“What’s all this stuff?” I ask.

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