Andrew Ervin - Burning Down George Orwell's House

“It’s terrible. Don’t you have any old-school hip-hop?” Ray gave Bud a glass, which he sniffed. “Islay?”

“Very close — Isle of Jura,” Ray said. “It’s right next door.”

“Nice,” Bud said.

“We talked about it and Ray’s going there,” Flora said.

“Really? Where?”

“Jura.”

“No I’m not.”

“That’s a great idea. I like this girl.”

“Woman.”

“Woman, sorry.”

“I never said that. It’s not—”

“He’s going to see where Orwell wrote Nineteen Eighty-Four and then quit the advertising business because he’s — what did you say? — burnt out?”

“That’s where you’re spending your week off?”

“I’m not really … I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it until now. I’d like to go, but I’m not sure it’s feasible.”

“Not feasible? That’s a shitty excuse.”

“Unlike your decade-old plan to visit Asia?”

“This isn’t about me.”

“I can’t go to Scotland now. I’m paying for two apartments, remember? Money’s tight as it is.”

“Don’t play that — I know how much you make. What do you mean you’re burnt out?”

“Why are you two trying to get rid of me?”

“We’re not trying to get rid of you, we’re—”

“Because you’ve turned into a miserable fuckface, Ray. Because you need to get away and refocus on your career. We did great with your Oil Hogg thing, don’t get me wrong, but I have to be honest with you: that play clock has expired and we need to come up with the best next thing for these fracturing people if we want to keep shitting in the tall cotton, but all you do is talk about it and make excuses. I need more time. Wah! I need more money. Wah! So go get your head right and then we’ll get started on this sweet new deal.”

“Does it bother you,” Flora asked, “that you’re a raging asshole?”

“Not one bit,” Bud said.

Ray took a large gulp from his whisky and poured another round, emptying the bottle. The spinning record sounded like it was changing speeds all on its own.

Ray broke the seal on a ten-year-old. The three of them drank steadily and with conviction. Flora sat on the floor next to the turntable and spun a few minutes of every record in the pile, then went through them all again. The music, for lack of a more precise term, lacked structure or even recognizable time signatures. It was glorious: without boundary — other than that of duration — and liberated from the narrow conceits of the pop-music vernacular. One of the LPs had two grooves on each side so that depending on where she dropped the needle it would play entirely different tracks. She placed the whisky cork on the center of the record to watch it rotate.

The whisky flowed downhill and they soon stopped with the pretense of using glasses, opting to pass the bottle until, good and liquored up, they went for a joyride in Bud’s vandalized SUV. Nothing about the trip was a good idea. The vehicle smelled like wet dog. Bud was the proud parent of an untrained Jindo named Curly, whose red fur clung to every interior surface of the truck and, now, to Ray’s clothes. The ride downtown was a blur of streetlights and sirens.

His former home was wedged on the eleventh floor of a neo-gothic high rise. The mortgage was unrealistic — if he didn’t move back in soon he and Helen would need to sell it. She would have to recognize that she couldn’t maintain it herself on an educator’s salary. He still possessed the keycard that allowed Bud to navigate a subterraneous network of parking facilities. They found his assigned spot, and he was glad that his truck remained where he had left it. Helen’s boxy station wagon sat in the next spot, which meant she was at home upstairs at that moment. He didn’t relish the thought of meeting her now, all drunk and in the company of Bud, who she had always despised, much less with the sexy coworker into whom — his reconciliation with Helen notwithstanding — he was pretty sure he wanted to insert his penis.

Ray looked at his truck, unsure of his next step. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Bud said. “You’re fucking this monkey, I’m just holding it down.”

“Lovely.”

“Will it start?”

“I still don’t know.”

“Did you bring the jumper cables?”

“No.”

“Then it better.”

He got out. The paint of the truck was very dusty, except for the Ten Commandments — shaped spot on the windshield that attested to the range of the wipers. That was strange. Some jokester had written “Warsh me” in the grime of the driver’s side door. He unlocked the vehicle and climbed up inside. The interior smelled funny. He switched on the overhead lights. A sports coat laid neatly folded on the backseat. He got out again and opened the back door. A tweed coat with professorial elbow patches. Definitely not his — it was way too big.

“What’s that?” Flora asked out the window. She had moved up to the front seat of Bud’s truck.

Ray held the jacket away from his body like it was radioactive. In the glow of Bud’s brake lights it looked like a bullfighter’s cape. Based on its size, it clearly belonged to Dr. Pentode.

Pentode had been driving his SUV? That meant that … Ray didn’t even want to consider the possibility. It also meant that Helen was …? It was impossible, yet here was the evidence.

Dr. Pentode was fucking his wife.

That fat piece of shit was probably upstairs in Ray’s condominium at that very moment with his pork-chop fingers all over Helen.

Ray tossed the coat back into his truck. Goddamn it. He got behind the wheel and it started up. He would check the GPS later to see where Pentode had driven. “What now?” he wanted to know, unsure whom he was speaking to.

“Let’s go get some grub,” Bud yelled. “Meet us at McCrotchety’s.”

“I’m not going to that yuppie hellhole,” Flora said. “I know a better place. Follow us, Ray.”

Bud took off with a squeal of his tires and Ray did the same. Pentode of all people. Goddamn it. He stayed on Bud’s tail until they got to the bridge, at which point Bud ran a red light and dared Ray to follow him, but he chickened out. By the time the light changed, Bud was out of sight. Ray reached for his cell phone but instead of calling Flora for directions he powered it off, plunging the interior of the vehicle into darkness. He drove home and threw up in the elevator.

The apartment reeked of scotch and he felt sick from the booze and the thought of Helen’s affair and the realization of just how drunk he was and that he had driven in this condition. The turntable’s needle spun in the inner groove of an LP, kicking up an ambient, low-level static from the speakers. He ran to the bathroom and vomited until he cried, and then vomited some more.

HE BINOCULARED HIS EYES against the glass, but couldn’t see anyone inside. The shop was empty, the hanging labyrinth of clothes gone. Only a local realtor’s FOR SALE sign remained. He knocked a few times and then banged on the door with the butt of his fist. The counter and shelves and racks had been stripped bare. He took a step back. In addition to carrying his coffee-stained shirt, he had that fat asshole Pentode’s sports coat draped over his arm like a blanket. He planned to return it, though he would’ve preferred to tear it to ribbons and tie them to the nearest maypole.

The appointment with Helen was in a little bit. They had a lot to discuss. He would give her every opportunity to explain why Pentode’s coat was in his truck. He walked around the corner, pushing through the morning crowd. Scores of plastic trash cans, each with a street number painted in sloppy white letters, had spilled their garbage all over the narrow alley that ran behind the row of shops. The names of the stores appeared on the back doors, but he didn’t need the signs to find Kletzski’s Kleaners. Two dumpsters halfway down the block overflowed with clean clothes. Hundreds of the bags inhaled and exhaled in the wind. The bins seethed with plastic. Mrs. Kletzski had thrown everything away, the entire contents of her store. His beloved shirt was somewhere in there.