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2
Kristopher
“Fuck you!” I groan. I can’t tell if the resonant knock is in my head or house.
Thud, thud, thud.
“For fuck’s sake, I said fuck off!” My voice strangles as I cough.
I hear the door open. “Get up, asshat.” I hear Cliff’s condescension. I don’t even have to look at him to feel the judgment.
Growling, I roll from the darkness of the black leather sofa to my stomach, hand fishing toward my pack of cowboy killers, finding the soft pack empty. I toss it aside, and the cat gives chase. That’s another one to end up under the fridge. “You got a smoke?”
“I quit two years ago.” Cliff drops down into the chair opposite me.
I nod because I can’t think. My eyes roam over the big gaudy ceramic ashtray. I finger through it, “C’mon.” Finding a butt not quite done, I stick it in my mouth with one hand and flick my Zippo with the other. The warmth of the flame and the stale smoke rouses me some.
“So we’re doing that now?” Cliff scoffs.
I sit up stiffly, looking him over. He’s lost some weight, and his hair is blonde. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s nice to see you, Cliff. How ya been?” He says sarcastically. “Oh, I’m good, clean, and sober.” He continues his one—way conversation while I go in search of a drink. The bottle of Fireball is empty. No matter how many times I shake it, I’m coming up balls. Speaking of—I need to piss. Leaning into the bathroom wall, I see a glass on the sink. It’s my favorite shade of amber gold. Grabbing it, I send it down the hatch.
Fuck— cigarette water. I choke, spit, gag, and piss everywhere. Just fuckin’ great. If the smell of the bleach isn’t enough to kill me, nothing will. Thoroughly annoyed, I come back into the room, finding Cliff playing with my acoustic. I run a hand down my face. “What do you want?”
“I got a job for you.” He strums the first few chords to Lightning in a Bottle, prompting me to snatch the guitar from him.
“I haven’t seen you in fuck all how long, and you wander in to offer me a job?”
“I’ve called. I even invited you to Jazzy’s birthday party against Linda’s better judgment.”
Jazzy is my goddaughter. I think she’s three. Linda is Cliff’s baby momma. “I was busy.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen.” He looks around. “Kris, what’s the point of having a label if you aren’t making music?”
“It’s not a label. It’s a fucking joke. I’m a fucking joke.”
“Yeah, a joke with some of the industry’s top songs under your belt.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I sit to sift through the ashtray again. It’s snatched away, and I glare.
“I know your style, your name might not be on them, but I know.”
“Fine, whatever. Who gives a shit?”
“I do. You can’t keep on like...This. I mean, look around. I’d hate to know what the rest of the house looks like.” He kicks an empty Chinese food carton. “I’m surprised you ain’t got bugs.”
“The cat would eat them if I did. Upstairs is fine. I’m hardly ever up there.” I wipe my face.
“I need you, need your genius.”
“If I say yes will you go the fuck away?”
“Not likely, but I will go upstairs and get you a clean shirt and a bottle of water.”
“My shirt’s clean.” I take a sniff. “It was.”
“When? Nineteen-eighty-seven?”
