David Jackson: Marked

So yet again she’s on the edge of death.

A tumor. A friggin tumor. Why would it be a tumor, for Chrissake? Why can’t it be a headache like any normal person would have? A migraine even. He could cope with her saying it was a migraine. People get migraines all the time. They don’t immediately assume their brains are about to disintegrate.

It was the same when she had those stomach pains last month. Appendicitis, she said. Or maybe even bowel cancer. He told her what it was. It didn’t take no medical expert to work it out. The bananas. Too many friggin bananas. She should be a monkey, the number of those things she eats. A big hairy ape.

He chuckles to himself. I’m married to a gorilla in a dress, he thinks. King Kong in frilly underwear. I better not take her to the Empire State Building anytime soon. Might give her ideas.

Harold Bloor hefts the two large garbage sacks out into the hallway, then closes the door softly behind him. He knows she’ll only complain if he makes the slightest noise. ‘You slammed it,’ she’ll say. ‘My head is pounding like a drum, and you went and slammed the door, you unfeeling bastard.’

He knows this because he’s heard it all before, many times. When she was anemic it was because he’d once talked her into making a blood donation. When she had a stiff neck it was because he’d thoughtlessly opened a window behind her. He’s always the one to blame. If she does have a friggin tumor — which she doesn’t — there’ll be an explanation that involves his inconsiderate behavior. Like not insisting they should move farther away from Japan when those nuclear reactors were hit by a tsunami.

He hitches his pants over his ever-expanding gut, picks up the bags again, and heads out of the building. At the top of the front stoop he pauses and watches a group of young men go past, dressed in T-shirts even though it’s the middle of October and heavy rain is forecast. He inhales a deep lungful of the city air. He smells exotic spicy food from the restaurant next door, mixed with the usual heady aroma of exhaust fumes. It makes him cough. This city, I should wear a face mask, he thinks. Or I could get one for the wife. A full face mask, completely covering every inch of visible flesh from the neck up and suppressing all noise generated in that vicinity. Purely for health reasons, of course. She shouldn’t keep breathing in these nasty city germs.

He chuckles again, then descends the stone steps. When he gets to the sidewalk, he turns and shuffles into the shadows of the stoop. He puts the bags down and removes the lid from the nearest trashcan.

Son of a bitch.

He replaces the lid, then tries the next one. And the next, and the next.

That’s it, thinks Harold Bloor.

This means war.

Two blocks away from the flashpoint of World War Three, Geoffrey Landis stares intently at his caramel torte, his arms and legs tightly crossed and his lips pursed in what he believes to be his most indignant pose.

‘It won’t jump off the plate and into your mouth, you know. You have to make a degree of effort.’

Geoffrey turns his glare on his boyfriend. ‘And what effort did it take to put whatever went into your mouth today? That’s what I want to know.’

‘Oh, puh-lease,’ says Stuart. ‘Don’t tell me we’re back on that again. I told you. It was a drink. One drink. He’s my boss. How could I say no?’

‘You start with an n , and then you put an o after it. It’s not difficult. Just because Antonio is your boss, it doesn’t mean you have to mince after him every time he clicks his fingers. There are limits, you know.’

Stuart gets up from the table and picks up his empty plate. ‘For God’s sake, you can be so childish sometimes. I had a drink with my boss in a public bar. I didn’t go down on him in the back of a taxi. Get it in perspective, Geoffrey. Maybe if you had a job of your own, you’d understand it a little bit more.’

He turns then, heads toward the kitchen area.

Geoffrey pushes back his chair and follows him. ‘I wondered when that would come up. I do work, and you know it. I work on this apartment. I work on doing all your washing and cleaning and ironing. I do all the jobs you hate to do. If it wasn’t for me, this place would be the stinking shithole it was before I moved in. So don’t you tell me-’

‘I’m not denying what you do here, Geoffrey. I’m simply pointing out that you don’t have an employer. You’ve never had an employer. If you did, you would understand that it’s sometimes a wise move to keep on your employer’s good side. And just because Antonio’s a good-looking Mediterranean type-’

‘You think he’s good-looking?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘No. With those teeth, I think he looks like a horse.’

Stuart smiles. ‘Well, he has been compared to a horse before, but not because of his teeth.’

Geoffrey crosses his arms again. He does it so abruptly that he punches himself in the bicep and has to pretend it doesn’t hurt.

‘Oh, so now we’re getting to it,’ he says. ‘The sex angle.’

‘Which angle’s that, Geoffrey? Do we need a protractor?’

Geoffrey has to resist the impulse to stamp his foot. He has done it before, and it only causes Stuart to laugh at him.

‘You know, you’re really starting to infuriate me. This is serious. I’d like to have a proper adult conversation about this, please.’

Stuart throws down his dishcloth and rounds on his partner. ‘Well, we can have an adult conversation when you stop behaving like a child. Now if you don’t mind, I need to clear away all this food you didn’t eat while you were sulking. So go away and come back when you’re in a more civilized frame of mind.’

Right, thinks Geoffrey as Stuart shows him the back of his head again. Right!

He storms toward the apartment door. Thinking, I’m going out. I’m going to find a bar and get drunk and maybe even pick somebody up and go back to their place. I may never even come back here again.

He opens the door, pauses at the threshold while he takes the deep breath he needs for the commencement of this decisive journey.

‘And don’t forget Agamemnon,’ Stuart calls after him.

Geoffrey lets the air out of his lungs again. The dog. It’s time for his walkies.

Not my problem, he thinks. Let Stuart do it for once.

Except that it is my problem. Aggie is my dog. He’ll miss me, even if nobody else in this place will.

Sullenly, Geoffrey heads back into the apartment, the planned demonstration of his independence on indefinite hold.

They’re all smiles when he first walks in. That’s because they figure he’s just another dumb schmuck they can rip off with their overpriced monosodium glutamate crap.

‘You want table?’ the girl asks him.

She’s pretty, thinks Harold. Even if she is a gook.

‘No,’ says Harold. ‘I want manager.’

The girl looks helplessly behind her, and one of her co-workers scurries over. He’s beaming idiotically too.

‘You want table?’

‘No. I want the manager. Are you the manager?’

‘No. No manager.’

‘Then get me the manager.’

‘No manager. Is family business. No manager.’

Harold sighs. ‘Okay, then get your dad.’

‘Dad?’

‘Your father.’

‘He not here. He very busy.’

‘Doing what? Putting out the trash?’

The young waiter simply blinks his lack of comprehension. Around them in the restaurant, the customers sense that something untoward is taking place, and the buzz of conversation fades, to be replaced by a few uneasy whispers.

‘I’m asking you about the trash,’ says Harold. ‘The garbage. Who put the garbage out tonight? Was it you?’