Gun, Needle, Spoon by Patrick O'Neil

Author:Patrick O'Neil
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Gun Needle Spoon
ISBN: Gun_Needle_Spoon
Publisher: Dzanc Books
Published: 2015-09-15T00:00:00+00:00

I never actually met the landlord. Instead, I did an interview over the phone at my sister’s house while she was away at work. Some old-sounding guy asked me what I did for a living, what my annual income was, and did I own any pets. I told him I worked construction, made thirty grand a year and had no animals to speak of.

“You sound like a nice young man,” he said. “Are you married?”

“My girlfriend and I are engaged,” I lied. Across the room Jenny had the end of a belt in her mouth, the other end wrapped tightly around her arm. A perplexed expression appeared on her face as she tried to find a vein with the rig clutched in her hand.

“That’s good, that’s real good. Sounds like you’re making a future for yourself. The apartment is yours if you want it. The other tenants are good people. I’m sure you’ll get along. The woman on the second floor is holding a key for you. Just send me a rent check every month.”

We took the camper shell off my truck, put it in the backyard, pulled the futon out, tossed it on the bedroom floor, and moved all my stuff from storage. Filling the rooms with boxes of books we’d never read, old clothes, a television, and a kitchen table without any chairs. That first night in our new apartment, lying in bed surrounded by boxes, life was good.

Eight months later the boxes were still there. Some unpacked, most untouched, gathering dust. The futon was surrounded by mounds of dirty clothes, empty bottles, fast-food wrappers, the acidic stench from an overflowing ashtray that lay on the floor in the middle of the bedroom permeated everything. A TV set, constantly on, sat by the door on milk crates. The sink in the kitchen overflowed with dirty dishes. Food-stained paper grocery bags crammed full of garbage piled against the refrigerator. A haze of cigarette smoke hung by the ceiling and four stolen car tires stacked in the living room waited to be sold.

When my mother stopped by and saw how we were living she asked whether I was back on heroin. I assured her that I wasn’t. “I’m just having a hard time finding work, I’m a little depressed, and don’t feel like cleaning,” was what I told her.

“Honey, I’m worried about you,” she said.

“Mom, don’t worry. I’m fine,” I told her. “Can I borrow thirty dollars, use your car this afternoon?”

“There’s a woman I know, a therapist. Said she’d see you about your depression. If you want I’ll pay for it.”

“Sure, mom. I’ll see her. Can I get that thirty?”

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