(no subject)
Chapter eight
The living room floor was sprinkled with crushed beer cans and cigarette butts. The room was stale with the pungent scent of the thousand cigarettes that were smoked the night before. Nate’s head sunk into his palms and a burning cigarette dangled from his lips. His stubble was thick, on the verge of a beard but not long enough yet, and his hair in tangles.
It was 10 o’clock, but the VCR blinked “12:00.” The living room curtains were torn off and direct sunlight shone through the off-white room, bouncing it everywhere and making everything too bright. Nate’s temples pounded and his stomach ached with the threat of vomiting. The neck of his black T-shirt was torn across his chest and his faded white jeans had burn holes near the thighs. The radio was on in the next room and a guitar solo beat through the walls.
Tina was asleep on the floor next to Nate. They were lying in front of the couch that was on its side. Nate’s hands played delicately with her stringy hair. He leaned over and looked at the coffee table in front of him. It was actually just a piece of plywood resting on top of four cinderblocks. A mess of old National Geographic magazines from the 70’s were scattered around amongst beer cans and stems and seeds from the marijuana smoked at the party.
Nate’s cigarettes were in the mess. A can was on it’s side next to them and had spilt beer all over the table and on his pack. They were still wet, so he struck his lighter and waved it across the length of a cigarette, trying to take away it’s sogginess. When it was dry, he placed it between his lips and lit up.
He reclined backwards next to Tina. She was wearing the same outfit she wore when they met, a neon green tube top and the cut-off shorts. She only had that outfit and three others that she bought at the Salvation Army. Nate kissed her forehead and rolled to face the ceiling. He stared at the wispy cobwebs and random sparkles that hid with the paint bumps. As long as he lived in this house, he’d never once cleaned the ceiling or walls. He had only even vacuumed the carpet a few times.
He took a strong inhale from his cigarette and blew the smoke upwards. The walls were stained with nicotine. A year ago, he found a couch on the side of the road and brought it home. To make it fit, he had to rearrange some of the other furniture. When he moved everything, there were white outlines the color of the paint in the places of the old furniture. The rest of the walls had yellowed around.
Nate sat up and walked into the kitchen. The sight was the same there, with dishes piled out of the sink and onto the floor, dirty paper plates left on the counter, old newspapers covering the kitchen table. Cakes of mud were blasted around the linoleum.
He grabbed a dirty glass from the sink, filled it halfway with warm tap water and chugged it, then threw it back in the sink. He rustled through papers on the counter to find the telephone. Even though he hadn’t paid the phone bill, it wasn’t supposed to go out for at least a few days. There was still a dial tone.
His mother should have called by now. It was the day after his birthday, and Nate still had yet to receive a phone call. She usually wasn’t like that. Even though she only called once a year, it was always on his birthday. She never bought him anything or was even interested in seeing him, but she’d call.
Nate laid his head on the cool counter and rested it. He was hung-over and tired, but couldn’t go back to sleep. He went back into the living room and got on the carpet next to Tina again.