Ryan Jahn - Low Life

Simon stepped from the Saab and walked toward the building, and then up onto Robert’s front porch. He checked under the welcome mat and under a dead potted plant. He found a key in neither of those locations. He looked around, trying to figure out where Robert might hide a spare. He didn’t want to have to break into the place – though he would. He reached up above the door and brushed his fingers across the top of the door frame. Dust fell down into his face and he shook his head and blew out through his nostrils. His fingers bumped something and it dropped to the concrete porch, tinkling like a bell. He sneezed from the dust, wiped at his nose, then wiped the results off on his pants.

The key lay at his feet. He picked it up, unlocked the front door, and went inside.

The apartment smelled of stale beer, marijuana, and the quiet depression of a man who never opened his windows or blinds. It was a small three-room apartment with a thirty-year-old green shag carpet, a small two-burner stove, and a fridge you could maybe squeeze a six-pack of Miller Lite and a package of bologna into if you were the kind of person who happened to like Miller Lite and bologna.

Simon searched the place.

Robert could have taken the body. He could have called work and said he would be late, gone to Simon’s apartment, and taken it. He could have – but why?

That was a question for later. The question for now was did he.

After ten minutes of searching and finding nothing – nothing but a collection of pornography, a collection of comic books, a collection of stamps, and a collection of bongs all stinking of stale bong water – Simon decided the answer to that was no. Or, if he had, he hadn’t brought it back to his apartment. Of course – why would he have?

Not knowing what else to do, Simon decided to call it a day.

But before heading back to Pasadena he stopped off at his apartment for what he thought might very well be the last time. If he could walk away from all this squalor, that would be just fine by him. He grabbed Francine and her small can of food, took them down to the car, and buckled her into the passenger’s seat. The shoulder strap went right over the top of the jar, of course, but the waist strap held her in place. He wanted her safe.

He put the car into gear and headed for home.

Home?

Why not? It was his now. If he could keep it.

He parked the Saab in the driveway and killed the engine. He half-expected the police to be waiting for him inside, standing next to a weeping Samantha, and when he walked in they would all look up at him with hateful accusation in their eyes.

Handcuffs would be pulled from belts. Steps would be taken toward him. Someone would say, You’re under arrest for the murder of—

He’d run but it would be no use. Of course it wouldn’t. It never is.

He grabbed Francine and got out of the car.

The living room was empty – not a cop in sight.

He closed the front door behind him, twisting the deadbolt home, and walked to the couch. He put Francine’s Mason jar onto the coffee table, sprinkled some food onto the water, and sat there watching her eat.

‘Jeremy?’ Samantha said, walking out of the hallway.

She wore a skirt and a gray blouse with the top two buttons undone, revealing her small-breasted cleavage. She was putting earrings into the several holes in her ears.

‘Where’ve you been?’ she said. ‘Dr Zurasky called and said you ran out of his office.’

‘I’m – I did.’

‘Are you okay?’

Simon shook his head.

‘I – I’m – no.’

‘Oh, baby,’ Samantha said.

She walked to the couch and sat down next to him. She put her arms around him.

‘What is it?’

‘Everything,’ Simon said. ‘It’s just – everything.’ He exhaled through his nose. ‘My head is killing me.’

‘Want me to get you some Tylenol?’

‘Okay.’

‘Okay.’

Samantha got to her feet and disappeared into the hallway a moment. When she returned she was carrying three pills in the palm of one hand and a glass of water in the other.

Simon took the pills, closed his eyes a moment, and then opened them again.

He looked up at Samantha.

‘Does the phrase “walk the mile” mean anything to you?’

Samantha shook her head.

‘Should it?’

‘I don’t know.’

She bit her lip. ‘I should call Gil and tell him we can’t go.’

‘To your show?’

Samantha nodded.

‘No,’ Simon said. ‘I’m okay.’

‘It can go on without me.’

‘No. I want to go.’

It was true. He wanted to be Jeremy Shackleford and Jeremy Shackleford would go to his wife’s art show. He would go and he would hold her hand and smile and be supportive. That’s what husbands did. He had seen it in movies and it seemed to be true. It should be, even if it wasn’t.

‘Are you sure?’

He nodded. This was what he wanted; this was what he’d spent the last two weeks thinking about and dreaming about. He was sure.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘We don’t have to leave for a couple of hours. Take a few minutes and relax.’

He nodded again.

Samantha turned away to finish getting ready, but then stopped.

‘You got a goldfish?’

‘Her name is Francine.’

Simon changed into a gray suit, which he thought would be more appropriate for the evening, which he thought was more like something Jeremy would wear to such an event. He washed his face, then dug through the closet till he found an overcoat, and then slipped into it.

‘You’re really gonna wear that?’

‘I’m cold.’

‘You look like a Griffith Park pervert.’

‘I think I’m coming down with flu or something,’ he said. ‘I got the shivers.’

Samantha shrugged.

‘Okay.’

The art show wasn’t at a gallery but a restaurant in Silverlake, on Sunset Boulevard, not too far east of the Sunset Junction. The tables had been lined up in the center of the room, where several tapas – warm seasoned almonds, spiced olives, some kind of blue-veined Spanish cheese that looked like a moldy version of brie – were laid out artistically among various bunches of flowers.

A bartender – a twenty-something actor-type that Simon thought he recognized from a bit part on one of those police procedural shows; he’d played a rapist – stood behind the bar, looking bored. He was, Simon would bet, a bartender who liked flair, and tonight he was stuck pouring free glasses of mid-grade pinot into six-ounce plastic cups, just getting people lubricated enough to maybe buy a piece of art, to part with their money.

Samantha’s paintings were hung around the room.

About forty or fifty people paced around, drinking their wine and looking at the paintings.

A moment after they walked into the restaurant a thin man with spiked hair, wearing a burgundy velvet jacket and black pants and a pair of suede platform shoes (he was short and wished he wasn’t, Simon thought), came pouring toward them, all teeth and joints and blue blue eyes.

‘Samantha!’ he said as he arrived, kissing both of her cheeks.

‘Hi, Gil,’ Samantha said.

‘Jeremy! Nice overcoat. Headed to a schoolyard later? Just kidding. Give it.’

Gil held his arms out to be hugged.

Simon hugged him uncomfortably.

‘What happened to your face?’

‘Dog bit me.’

‘Oh.’ Gil seemed lost for only a second. Then: ‘Do you guys want some wine? Tapas?’

‘Oh,’ Samantha said, ‘we’ll make our way to the bar. No hurry.’

Gil spun around.

‘Look everybody!’ he shouted to the room. ‘The lady of honor has arrived, the fabulous Samantha Kepler-Shackleford!’ He swept his arms toward her.

She blushed and did a little curtsy.