Tim Meyer - The Switch House

“How’s the Penman article coming along?” he asked, scribbling red ink all over Riddick’s article on a dead hooker the police found gutted in a Dumpster the night before, her ovaries removed.

“Good,” I replied. George Penman, the former mayor, had recently committed adultery. Infidelity involving government officials was always front-page material, especially if the deed involved a fourteen-year-old boy. “I’ll have to edit it down to make it appropriate for all ages,” I told him. It wouldn’t be easy. The information I received had been more disturbing than Riddick’s dead-hooker story.

“I need it by noon,” Mark said. He pushed the dead hooker to the side of his desk and put down his red pen. Taking off his glasses, he glanced at me suspiciously. “I’ll have it by noon, right?” His lips formed a faint smile.

“Of course,” I said. I’ve only been late on a story once or twice in my career. Mark looked at me as if he knew that article wasn’t going to find his desk before the clock struck twelve.

I turned toward the door, coffee in hand, donut long since devoured.

“Oh, Ritchie,” he said, as if he had forgotten to mention something important. “We’re taking Finnegan to lunch at 12:30. You in?”

“What for?”

“Didn’t you hear? He’s moving to Michigan.”

I nodded. “Must have forgotten.” I’m not sure what possessed me to do it (that damn current?), but I reached for my wallet. It wasn’t there. I had left it home, on the dresser, next to a picture of Lynne and I at our friends’ wedding. I remember staring at it extraordinarily long that morning, and I must’ve forgotten about grabbing my wallet completely.

“What’s the matter?” Mark laughed. “Looks like someone just slapped your balls.”

“I forgot my wallet.”

“I can spot you for lunch, Ritchie. No need to look stupefied.”

I had a better idea, one I wished I hadn’t thought of, but at the same time, I’m glad I did. “What if I go home to finish the Penman article? I can grab my wallet, and the three of us will be back at noon. Just in time for your deadline.”

Mark shrugged, smiled, and said, “Do whatever you got to do, Ritchie.” He looked as if he knew something and wasn’t telling me. “Don’t let me down.”

But I did let him down. The George Penman article never hit the press.

The traffic on Saturday mornings in Atlanta was absurd. I tried taking as many side streets as possible, but they too were plugged. I took Cassack Street to North Main, and then crossed over to Brighton Avenue. According to Mike and Tina on 104.3, an old woman, going about forty on Old Egypt, ran over a Latino gentlemen riding his bicycle. This was usually the quickest way home, but the scene sounded grisly and I didn’t want any part of it. Anyway, the police and ambulances had arrived and I heard them faintly as Mike and Tina switched from traffic to sports. They began to rant about the Falcons having a better shot of making the playoffs than the Saints. The two teams were scheduled to play the following day, a game that would take place less than ten minutes from our apartment. I had every intention of going.

Tina was yelling at Mike, telling him the Falcons had the best defense in the league, and Mike laughed at her, informing her that she wouldn’t know a stout defense over a piss-poor one if it slapped her on her over-sized tush. Mike was a male-chauvinist jackass most of the time, but I’d be lying if I said I never chuckled at his edgy humor. Tina never seemed to mind. The two of them played their parts well, and perhaps that was why they were the most popular radio show in the city.

While the two were bickering about the big game, I pulled onto Wells Avenue, where our humble apartment stood on the corner. I parked in our designated spot on the street and realized that Lynne’s car had been parked in a different spot than when I had left that morning. I didn’t think anything of it at the time.

I jogged the short flight of stairs that led to our door. I always preferred second-story apartments, especially living in this section of the city. It wasn’t the ghetto by any means, but it sure wasn’t Candy Land either. There were a few known robberies that occurred in our neighborhood, and I was always thankful for never coming home and seeing our sixty-inch flat screen removed from the wall, or Lynne’s jewelry box emptied.

But if I had to pick being robbed or what I walked into that Saturday morning, I’d pick being robbed every time.

I heard the faint sound of music, something fast and synthesized, coming from what I assumed was our apartment. Once I opened the front door, the bass-driven beat hit me like a soft punch in the kisser. It was loud. And obnoxious. And it sure as shit didn’t come from my collection. So this is what she does when I’m not here, I thought, laughing, expecting to find her dancing in front of the mirror or something ridiculous.

How fucking clueless was I.

I called out her name, but she didn’t hear me over the loud music that rattled the windows. “Turn that shit down!” I screamed, but still no reply. I wasn’t angry. Far from it. I just didn’t want our elderly neighbors below complaining to our landlords. It wouldn’t be the first time. “You’re going to aggravate the wrinkled bags beneath us,” I said in a tone I knew she wouldn’t hear. I took my coat off and threw it on the couch.

Then I headed for our bedroom, the source of the commotion. That was when I heard the whimpering. It was loud enough for me to hear it over the music. The closer I got, the more distinct it became. It was definitely Lynne, and she was definitely crying. But why? I certainly didn’t remember doing anything to upset her that morning. She kissed me goodbye like she had every day since we started living together. Not to mention, Lynne wasn’t really the crying type. Maybe once or twice when she was using, when her emotions were like a rainbow, six different Lynnes at once. But I knew she wasn’t using. I could tell when she was.

The first thing I noticed when I pushed open the bedroom door was Buster Gritton—a three-hundred pound All-Pro lineman. His face was scrunched together, his eyes closed as if he was thinking really hard about something. Oh, and he was naked. The second thing I saw was Lynne, bent over in front of him. Also naked. She was also thinking real hard about something, with her eyes tightly shut and her bottom lip between her teeth. Buster was thrusting into her real hard, the slapping sounds of their bare skin colliding could actually be heard over the shitty music. Buster slapped her ass, leaving behind a pink paw print, and muttered something about coming real soon.

I tried to speak, but whatever I wanted to say never left my throat. I did nothing but stare. And stare. And stare. I watched the two of them fuck in my bed, our bed, the one we made love in almost every night before falling asleep. Lynne submerged her head into her pillow and groaned bestially.

That’s when I started to feel ill. My body felt empty. It felt as if someone had removed my bones and organs. My head felt vacant, as if someone had peeled back my scalp, drilled holes in my cranium, and vacuumed out my brains. I opened my mouth again but remained speechless. I stood there, mouth agape, and witnessing the worst day of my adult life to date.

Then Buster Gritton opened his eyes and saw me. At first he said nothing, and continued with his rhythmic thrusts. Then he slowed, and I heard Lynne ask him if he had finished, as she lifted her golden mop off the bed. I felt like I was going to puke when Lynne finally turned and saw me standing in the doorway.

My chest did something funny and the lights in the room dimmed.