Atticus Lish - Preparation for the Next Life

Hey. You Greg’s friend?

Who’s that?

He’s the guy they had before you. I thought he was your friend.

No. Don’t know him. I’m not from here.

What are you, in college?

No.

Like LaGuardia? She wants to go there.

Vicky indicated Erin, who was standing with one foot on top of the other foot, her heavy hip leaning against the counter. She was wearing an oversized shirt that came down covering the widest part of her. She had taken the bread off a sandwich and she was picking at the cheese. Her face was angled down. She had an expression of complete equanimity on her face. Since he had arrived, she had ignored him.

No, I’m not in college.

So, what are you, here for work?

No, I’m more like checking it out.

That’s cool. Explore your world. So you don’t know anyone. You’re, like, who is everybody?

I know her and her daughter.

You met Pat, the father?

I don’t know.

You’d know. If you shook his hand, you’d know. When he took your arm off.

What’s he got, like an Irish voice?

Patrick Murphy? Yeah.

I might of heard him through the floor.

Through the floor? That sounds right, she said. That was him.

He glanced again at Erin, trying to get a look at her face, to see if she had any bruises, any black eyes or fat lips.

So where you from?

I’m from Pittsburgh.

That figures. I hear the twang. You don’t sound like you’re from the city.

We’re rednecks where I’m from.

Someone who overheard them mentioned that John Gambia from the neighborhood had come back from basic training sounding like a redneck.

Come on already. Get the sand out of your shoe, Vicky said.

He took another Michelob. When he opened it, the bottle cap fell and bounced on the linoleum. The star on the back of his neck showed when he bent to pick it up.

Indicating John, she said, You know this guy actually plays for the Jets.

Cool. I’m a Steelers fan.

Uh-oh, John said.

It’s all good.

Skinner tried to toast him, but the football player didn’t have a bottle. He held up his big fist and Skinner tapped it with his beer.

Everyone wanted to talk to the professional athlete, who, though not much of a talker, had an easy way about him, and spoke to everyone. Generally he didn’t stay too long speaking to any one person. Skinner made him stay and talk about strength and conditioning. I played ball in high school, Skinner said. John was polite. He acknowledged having had the clinic run on him in training. The two weeks in the preseason were tough, just as you have surely heard. He began to move away. Skinner kept saying, hold it dude, detaining him.

Squat, bench, chins, sprints.

Okay, said John.

Wait, what about power cleans, dips?

Okay, that’s good.

Dips are upper body squats.

Yup.

Burpees, hit-it’s, suicides. Six days a week, two times a day.

That’s a pretty heavy schedule. What are you doing all this for?

Skinner just shook his head.

I don’t know.

How many of those’ve you had, buddy?

Skinner took a while to answer. Someone else — an older woman with her hair in a scrunchy — came over and said hi to John and gave him a hug. Her voice was gone and half of what she said was whispery air.

It’s scary how different I look from one day to the next, isn’t it!

She adjusted her scrunchy to hold her pale blond hair up in a stalk above her head. The football player turned to speak with her. In so doing, he presented Skinner with his back.

I’ve had one.

The football player didn’t turn around.

I’ve had one, Skinner said more loudly. A nineteen-year-old iron-worker with a silver earring and a reflective orange stocking cap began looking at him steadily.

The general conversation turned back to John Gambia and what he was doing in Iraq. It was agreed that he was doing very well.

At this point, the cell phone by Mrs. Murphy’s coffee cup rang. It played the chorus from the song: I can’t go on, because I love you too much, baby. It was an important call. Everyone went quiet. It’s him, she said. He wants to talk to you. And she handed the phone to Vicky who took it into the hallway to talk. The conversation in the kitchen resumed while she was gone. Skinner’s eyes were getting heavy. He put his empty on the counter and rubbed his face. He listened to them talking about people he didn’t know. Then she came back a few minutes later and gave the phone to Mrs. Murphy. He wants to talk to you now. She turned herself away from the others as much as her size would allow, but anyone who was listening was going to hear her side of the conversation anyway. She said:

What’s wrong?… What is it?… Is it the same guard?… Can you do it on a different shift?… Listen to you… I hear you getting fresh with me… Just take it easy… Okay. Just take it easy. We’re going to see you soon. Just take it easy, will you?… All right. Goodbye.

The call ended. She set the phone down on the table. She reached for her Slims.

How’s he doing? John asked.

He’s upset over the phone schedule. That’s all the time he had.

He’s okay though.

He’s okay.

Erin asked, Is he still having a problem with the same guard?

Mrs. Murphy eyeballed her daughter.

Vicky, who was folded like a black cat on a kitchen chair, said, Yeah, and tapped her cigarette in the ashtray.

From across the room, Skinner said:

Who’re you talkin about?

The question caused a silence in the apartment. People stared at him, then they looked at Mrs. Murphy to see what she would say. From the back of the kitchen, Erin muttered something in a rising singsong voice that you didn’t have to hear to understand. The iron-worker with the silver earring exchanged a look with one of his male friends.

My son, Mrs. Murphy answered.

What, is he overseas? Skinner asked. Is he the Army Ranger?

You’re getting him confused.

You could say that, someone else said. Not exactly. Haha. Jimmy, no. Not the army. That would be someone else. Can you imagine Jimmy taking orders? No, let’s drop it.

But Skinner felt like he was missing something. I’m sayin, is he a brother soldier?

He’s not in the army. Put it that way.

He fucked up.

The cops fucked up, if you asked me, Vicky said and nodded at her cigarette.

He’s the place you go when you fuck up, John said and laughed. Leave it at that.

Thank you, Mrs. Murphy said. And would you quit the f-word in my kitchen. There was general laughter. And since we’re putting it in the street, yes, he’s upstate. We get him back in April.

Then you gotta have another one of these, have everybody over.

We’ll do something. Do me a favor: next time, get Guinness and you can come. More general laughter. She lit a cigarette and smoked it, talking in a lowered voice to a friend. The episode was forgotten, it seemed. Erin examined the remaining food and asked her mother if she had eaten. No one asked if Skinner wanted something to eat. He had consumed three beers. Mrs. Murphy told her daughter to bring her something. Not the whole thing. Cut it for me.

Skinner’s eyes were nearly shut from dopiness.

You wanna see my workout? he asked the ballplayer. You can tell me if it’s good.

He was told: That’s okay, hoss. Another time.

HE TOOK A DRINK from a flask of Bacardi Scorched Cherry and watched an execution on his laptop. A man’s body tensed while his killer sawed at his neck. Two men kneeled on him. The audio was bad, and Skinner turned the volume up. That sound was him protesting. The clock was running. The film advanced. The man had become inanimate in the last thirty seconds. Now they lifted up the head, separating it from the corpse.