A Bottle and a Sandwich for Roland

Roland stood washed in the lamplight, his magnetic air dripped onto the tangled, pubic shag of the carpet. He had a hand pressed against the door balancing his exaggerated masculinity and combed his hair back into a slick with the other. His jacket was ripped but the cowhide was worn so it was hard to notice. His flannel below the leather was buttoned halfway and I could see the sun seeded roots of chest hair. I barely started growing armpit air, which was stringy and very light, where Roland’s was thick and darker than his eyes. Roland wore himself like a tuxedo even though half the time he was a drunk catastrophe, a swaying body of leather and cotton.

I set a needle on the outer rim of a record and waited for the static to commence the western symphonies of the archaic voice of melancholy. Roland moved away from the door when we both heard the sounds of my step fathers meaty feet slap against the hallway floor. He moaned complaints to my mother about something, and we both heard her pathetic apologetic excuse. She sounded like a bird responding to the threat of a gorilla. The music started and drowned out their voices.

“You know, there’s  something about this guy that I really dig, something profane in his voice, like he’s hiding something in plain sight, something that he’s singing about is warmer than wine in your belly.”

Roland was drunk, it’s no shock or surprise. He was at a submissive level of inebriation, he felt like expressing his thoughts instead of thinking them, and he wanted me on the same level as well.

“Jack, you know, you sit there and wallow on your blankets, sober as a cup of coffee, but I can see your face, I can see your thoughts displayed in your eyes, I can read you like a pocketbook.” He bounced away from the door and heaved himself onto the bed next to me. “You really should consider drinking more.”

 “Roland, I drink enough as it is.”

“Coffee.”

“Yea.”

I haven’t an ounce of wonder as to why Roland decides to spend his time with me rather than chase warm, ripe a*s around the cold streets. He was unpredictable, confusing and astounding, and has been that way his entire life. His eyes reflected off the bottle and the bottle floated in his eyes. I took the glass and sipped the brown gasoline.

“Roland,”

“Sir,”

“Why do you consider me a friend?”

Roland pulled a leg up and set it across the other. He revealed a pack of cigarettes and plucked one from the box.

“Can I open this widow?”

“Sure.”

The window had a lock on it and Roland struggled trying to figure out how to open it.

“Goddamn. How the hell--”

“Let me.” I pushed the window open with ease and laughed at the fact.

Roland lit the stogie and the outside air sucked out the excreted flame. He released a long sigh.

“Do you know why you’re my friend, Jack?”

“Why?”

“No, give me an answer, not a question.”

I looked inward into myself while simultaneously concentrating on Roland’s shoe. The shot of whiskey was boiling within me and I felt the alcohol release the grip on my silence.

“I guess we’re friends because we are both so groovy.”

“That’s an important bullet. But also because we are so similar.”

I almost laughed at the statement. Roland and I had nothing in common, other than bullshitting.

“How are we similar, Roland?” I took another shot and grimaced.

He took a drag and blew out a ghost.

“Uhmm,” he flicked the cigarette out the window and closed it. “Look, we both have each other. We have similar interests in the art of passing time. We both laugh. Laughing is very important when it comes to friendship. It shows that were both open to the dissection and analytical ridicule of the faults of reality and ourselves and our desires and dreams,” he capped the bottle. “And our problems.”

My nostrils twitched at the lingering phantasm of tobacco curling in the still room. I broke the specter with my breath and slapped Roland’s shoulder.

“You don’t have problems, what are you talking about? You’re the coolest cat from here to Phoenix. You have your own damn collection of female satellites orbiting around you every time you’re out in public. You come to school drunk and leave school high and never get caught. Your bike is the fastest in town and you nailed that senior’s divine girlfriend.”

He smiled but didn’t show his teeth, and his lips stretched in a weird crescent of pink and his eyes grew larger, consumed by pupil. “I guess you’re right.” He punched me lightly. “But what happens with this bottle runs out? There goes my luck and inspiration.”

The bedroom door was tapped on lightly and we both knew it was my mother. Roland jumped and hid the bottle behind my desk and sat in the chair. He placed fresh piece of paper in the mouth of the typer and began punching keys.

“S**t.” I whispered and opened the door.

My mother stood in the dark of the hallway. She stood very still and looked almost like a ghost. When her little voice spoke Roland stopped typing and turned and waved.

“Oh, hello Roland. How are you boys doing? Do you want something to eat?”

I tried to act normal and not as if I had just swallowed an ounce of Tennessee whiskey. I tried to turn my mouth away from my mother’s face so the floating scents of acrid drink would waft elsewhere.

“No, we’re okay.” I said, and stiffened.

“I’ll take a ham sandwich, thanks Judy.” Roland said and turned back to the machine, vigorously hitting the keys to distract his drunken state.

“Do you want a sandwich, Jack?” she asked. I felt her eyes probe me for any source of heathenism, when the main source was sitting right behind me.

“No, I’m okay. We’re about to depart, anyways.”

“Okay. Well, you boys have fun now. Be careful riding down that hill, now. It’s dangerous during this time of year when the roads are slick.”

My mother wore an evening gown most of the time and it embarrassed me when she made these little appearances in front of Roland. Every curve and corner of her was exposed and Roland always commented on how big her tits are. Sometimes I wondered if she made these appearances for Roland’s pleasure.

“We’ll be careful, Mother.”

“Okay,” she was closing the door and I was just about to catch my breath when it creaked back open. “You boys haven’t been smoking in here have you?”

Roland made no effort to respond, and kept typing. I shook my head, eyes wandering.

She shrugged. “Must be your father smoking inside again.”

She closed the door.

“He’s not my father.”

Roland jumped up and squeezed my shoulder. “Yeah, that guy is a sphincter.”

 

Outside the air was thin and cold. The pines surrounded the property loomed above us and dripped the gray sky’s condensation.

Our bikes were leaned against the shed. Roland had the ham sandwich clamped in his mouth as he mounted his cycle.

“When does the game start?” he asked.

I got on my own bike, which was much smaller and rusted than Roland’s.

“I think seven o’clock.”

Roland pedaled in front of me as always. “We have time to get another bottle.”

We started down the dirt road which ended at the main road.

Roland laughed and turned at looked at me. I already knew what he was going to say.

“I swear I saw her n*****s, man.”

“Shut up!”

 

 

Reviews

[Gaston Villanueva]

I really like how I'm able to see this adventure grow
Keep it up Max

[Ariana Omnomnom]

I think you forgot a "more" before rusted at the end, otherwise your story was perfection as always. You should write a sequel where Roland and Jack's mom have sex, cuz then I would be satisfied.

[Chadvonswan]

It's all about sex with you ain't it. I'm not changing a thing Ariana

[Ariana Omnomnom]

Okay, okaaayyy

[M. Black]

"She sounded like a bird responding to the threat of a gorilla" - loved this :)
Great read! I really liked your use of descriptions :) Good job!