5905 Albany, Georgia 31721
Tel: (269) 288-3632
Approx 2,180 words
The Trashcan
by
Edwin Oliver
Michael, who normally took all possible precautions, sat startled on his bed. The noise in the bathroom, cut through the dark and silent night like an ice pick. It woke him up.
"It can't be", he thought. "I'm sure I locked the door to the porch".
The door to the hallway had a strong crossbar, and surely, no one could penetrate the sanctity of his bedroom through there. He touched his head, just to make sure he was awake. No doubt about it. Not only was he awake, but there was also, someone in the bathroom. Unfortunately, the bathroom door opened in, and he had no way of closing it from this side. To make matters worse, there was yet another door, connecting the bathroom to the porch; that door, he always told his wife, was the weakness of the house. If anyone ever broke in, it would be through there. Now, he was naked, vulnerable. This was one more nightmare galloping through the wilderness of his vivid imagination. In a matter of minutes, maybe seconds, someone would come into his bedroom, and kill him.
"What some people will do for thirty silver coins", he thought. He quickly looked towards his night table and remembered his gun. A low sigh of relief escaped him. "I've never had to kill anyone . . ."
If only his wife were here. Not because he wanted her protection; her presence gave him some measure of self-assurance. But, oh no; he was all alone. Whenever she went on a trip, the worst things always happened. The last time she traveled, he almost died. It was a piece of spoiled cake that did it. She left it for him in the refrigerator. In another of her "infamous" trips, the brakes in his car malfunctioned, and he almost smashed into an oncoming truck. Then, there was the time where he almost got electrocuted by a frayed wire cable, accidentally touching a small puddle, near the clothes washer. How that one got by her, was beyond him, but she was, after all, a careless woman. It wouldn't surprise him if, one day, just by pure negligence, she would end up killing him. But he wanted her near him, anyway. He needed her like a superstitious gambler needs his lucky charm. For a moment, he felt his blood boil. He didn't know which he hated more; his wife for leaving him alone, or the intruder that threatened to come out of the bathroom.
Slowly, his hand moved towards the night table drawer. He pulled it open. His gun was there, exactly the way he'd left it the last time he cleaned it. Although the room was dark he remembered putting bullets in the cylinder. In spite of Laurie's protests, he bought the gun.
"In case of an emergency", he told her. He never thought it would happen, but today, was such an emergency.
He took the gun, and moved towards the bathroom door. For a brief moment, he was tempted to run out the hallway to find refuge in some other part of the house, but he discarded the idea. Sooner or later, he would face the intruder. Besides, the whole idea was cowardly. The best thing to do, he thought, was to wait. There was no other choice. Crooks don't break into a house to steal a toothbrush, or a bar of soap. People don't keep their money in the bathroom. If he remained still long enough, the intruder would eventually come through the door.
He forged a plan. As soon as the door opens, start firing. Simple. Whoever was in his bathroom, was an intruder, a home invader. To defend his territory, was his inalienable right. No one would ever accuse him of committing cold, calculated murder. He waited behind the door, standing a little to the right of the handle. A big drop of sweat trickled down his cheek. Quickly, he wiped his face with his left hand, and realized that it was more than a drop. His skin was soaked; his hands shook.
He stood there, and waited.
His thoughts ran at a higher speed than his intellect could digest. His whole body trembled, his heart beat fast, and with enormous desperation, he waited some more.
Nervously, he thought about the possibility of making his presence known. Just open his mouth and say, "Stop right there! Get out of my house, or I'm gonna' fill you with lead". Maybe that would be enough to avoid an unfortunate confrontation. Any crook with half a brain would run scared after hearing such a warning. He thought about it for two more seconds, then said out loud, "Who the hell is in there?" His voice broke a bit. "If you don't get out of here now, you're gonna' regret it!"
Once again, he waited next to the door, but nothing seemed to move. Nothing. His stomach twisted into a huge intestinal knot; the pain announced the arrival of an unstoppable diarrhea. If he didn't act fast, he would shit in his pajamas. "Goddamed nerves", he thought. "Why do I let them get the best of me at the worst time?" Suddenly, he remembered the meat loaf his wife left him in the refrigerator. "I must have had too much. Goddamit!"
New plan. He moved his free hand towards the handle, and violently shook the door; not to open it, but to scare away whoever was on the other side.
Silence. Not even the sound of a cricket. Only his heartbeats, pounding heavily against his eardrums. His heart. His eardrums. A heartbeat. Another. And more silence.
"You coward", he said to himself. "That's what you are. An asshole and a coward". In a sudden rush, he pulled himself away from the wall. Gun in hand, he kicked the door open. "Come on out, or I swear I'll kill you!"
The bathroom was dark; nothing moved from within. He heard nothing, except a light wheezing escaping his mouth. Michael was not a chronic asthmatic, but whenever he got nervous, his breathing turned difficult.
"Hello?", he asked, as he looked towards the escaping blackness of the bathroom. Only his voice echoed back, mocking him. Slowly, he moved closer to the doorframe. While he held his gun with his left hand, he brought his right hand up to the light switch. The unpleasantness of sudden brightness invaded his eyes as the bathroom lights penetrated every corner of the bathroom. He was alone. The door to the porch was locked. It made no sense. Only he and his wife had keys to that door. He breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short lived. The desperation of an irrepressible urge forced him to sprint to the toilet with the speed of a cat running away from a mad dog. He barely missed shitting on the lid. Diarrhea! A locomotive was about to run over him.
How he missed his wife. If she were here, she would have taken care of him by now. No need to spend hours trying to find some medicine for his troubles. She would be standing in front of him with a spoonful of Pepto Bismol, or some such nonsense, not even minding the smell. She mothered him to death.
He cursed his loneliness.
The first stage, of what promised to be a long odyssey, was over. He took the revolver back to his night table, and walked to the kitchen. There were no plans on his part, to spend the rest of the night visiting the toilet. He turned on the kitchen lights as he prepared himself for a long search in the cupboard. Laurie was a real artist when it came to putting things away. Once she did, only God could find them. Sometimes, just to find a simple screwdriver, he would spend hours; she, on the other hand, found anything in no time flat. One more reason for him to hate her trips. Michael was a little boy, lost in his own private, little playpen.
He opened the cupboard where they normally kept most medicines, but he knew he wouldn't find it that easy. He got ready to be pissed. Laurie, however, in spite of all their years together, always managed to surprise him. What happened next was, almost, as unexpected as finding out there was a Santa Claus. As soon as he opened the cupboard, he found the Pepto Bismol. The bottle jumped at him. All it needed was a drum roll.
"Goddamed woman", he said, as he pulled open the dishwasher to dig for a spoon. The label said "Two tablespoonfuls" as a first dose, then another after every bowel movement. He took the first spoonful. "Shit", he thought, "this doesn't taste like Strawberries". There was a bitter, vodka-like, aftertaste to it. He looked at the label again. "New, improved formula", it said. He took the second spoonful and made a face. "Yuck!"
Just before he turned off the kitchen light, he saw the trash bag.
"Honey, Don't forget to put the trash away before you got to bed on Monday. The garbage truck only comes around on Tuesday mornings."
Those were the last words she said to him, before she left for the airport. Michael cursed the moment, because it was too cold out there. He thought about letting it go, but he knew the trash would smell the kitchen for the rest of the week. Besides, Laurie would kill him if he didn't put it out. Cockroaches, you know.
He resigned himself to taking out the trash bag. His balls froze in his scrotum when he pulled it over his shoulder and walked outside. Trying to hurry it up, he dropped the bag on the floor. The thing broke; its contents spilled out on the street. His teeth shattered uncontrollably, as he picked up the trash. The word "fuck", repeatedly came out of his mouth; over, and over, and over. It was as if this profane litany could make the cold go away. After a few minutes, most of it was taken care of; he didn't want his trash littering half the street, yet he needed to thaw out his testicles. As soon as he could, he ran right back into the house.
He went around the house turning off the lights, but his mind wouldn't stop racing. Something wasn't right; something bothered him; something didn't make sense. Without quite putting his finger on it, he shrugged his shoulders and went back to his bedroom. His stomach ached worse than before; the pain was sharper. An overwhelming feeling forced him to run to the bathroom. He emptied himself out in two seconds flat. If he didn't know better, he could swear he just turned into a water fountain. A bit of nausea crept up his gullet.
He went back to the kitchen to help himself to a double dose of Pepto Bismol; it might do the trick, he thought. But things only got worse. Stumbling into his bedroom, just before he reached his bed, he collapsed. Maybe it was time to call a hospital. He crawled to his wife's side of the bed to get the phone, but it wasn't in the cradle.
"Impossible", he thought. "Where the hell is it?" His mind scrambled for an answer. The phone never got lost because of him. It was Laurie who always kept leaving it all over the house; and Laurie wasn't here. He was dead sure he left it on the cradle before turning in. A sudden rush of blood flowed to his face. He felt sick and frustrated. Nothing seemed right.
"All I need now", he thought, "is to shit in my jammies. I gotta get back to the toilet!" He felt a little trickle down his leg. It made him realize he was about to soil his pajamas. With some effort, he stood up and opened the closet. A short giggle escaped him, but it was closer to a cry of desperation. He pulled a new set of pajamas from the shelf, when a letter fell to the floor. The envelope was addressed to Laurie; the handwriting almost looked like his own. He took the letter with him, and rushed back to the toilet.
He sat there for a century. Nothing ever felt like this before. "Oh, Laurie. Why did you have to go away?" he cried. The pain forced him to bend over. He needed to find the phone, fast. If Laurie were here, she'd find it in no time. If she were here, she would know how to take the pain away. If she were here, her face alone would soothe him. If she were here.
His head drooped towards the floor, when he realized the letter was still in his hand. He tore open the envelope and read it with amazement:
"Dear Laurie:
The truth is I can't go on living like this anymore. I know God will forgive me, I hope you do too.
Your husband,
Michael"
"What the hell is this?" he blurted out.
He left the bathroom with the full intention of searching for the phone; he needed to go to a hospital. NOW! But as he passed his bed, he collapsed again. It was then, that he saw the shadow moving in the hallway. He could have sworn a woman stood near the threshold. "Pure hallucination", he thought.
As he lost consciousness, he suddenly remembered what bothered him when he went to throw out the trash. Two empty bottles spilled from the bag; he didn't quite notice them when he picked them up. The first one had a skull on the label with the warning in large letters: “Poison”, and the second, a double concentrate of horse laxative.