When the doorbell rang at Brent Booker’s third story studio apartment he was not wearing pants. He was crumpled in a second hand recliner, scrolling on his phone through wedding announcements and baby photos and news reports of genocide in Syria. A thick paste of days old coffee was encrusted on five or six mugs strewn around the room. There were no clean ones left, he had taken to simply washing the least filthy one each morning, at the last possible moment. He had finally succumbed to the heavy hand of the banal.
He ignored the doorbell. It occurred to him that he had been following links and photos and friends until he was many degrees of separation from anyone he knew, and was looking pictures of a complete stranger’s baby. He clicked on the next album, an autumn theme from the year before. Pumpkin costumes. Cute.
A damp cloud of mildew hovered over baskets of dirty clothes in the corner, although he didn’t smell it anymore. For weeks it had seemed easier for him to join the Marine Corps, or design a house, or to do anything intangible and distant, really, than to brush his teeth or switch the load of wet laundry to the dryer. Killing himself sounded better than addressing the slimy, brown water that had accumulated and begun to fester in the kitchen sink. He took a sip of cold coffee.
The front door of the apartment swung open. “They’re still sending you this shit?” Peter asked as his lanky frame stooped to avoid the open kitchen cabinets. He stepped over a jumble of shoes and slapped a pile of Marine Corps mailers onto the coffee table. “I thought you were done with all that.”
Weeks earlier Brent began telling Peter and a few close friends that he’d been visiting with a recruiter, but that they were all smooth talk and that he’d gotten queasy about the whole thing and told them to fuck off. Peter and the others said that’s a good thing for all of us because he’d make a shit marine. In reality Brent had entered his address and phone number for more information and never quite gotten around to following up, and made a habit of not answering calls from numbers he didn’t know. He figured he’d make a shit marine anyway, but the mailers kept coming two or three times a week.
“I guess they can’t live without me,” he said, and nipped at the bitter, tepid drink.
“Guess not.”
“Shouldn’t you be out panhandling or something?” It was the first time in nearly two years that Brent had seen Peter without a ratty cardboard sign extolling some sob story.
“Nah I’m done with that. I defend next week.”
“That really is shameful.”
“What,” Peter asked in mock dismay. “It’s art.”
“It’s fraud.”
“It makes the people happy. They love thinking they’re helping someone.”
“But they could be helping someone.”
“They helped me! I’m getting an MFA!”
“Unbelievable.”
“Believe it, son. Hey you going to that thing for Charlie?” The question hung in the room for a while before seeping into the carpet along with old pizza grease.
“I haven’t really thought about it,” Brent lied.
I’m not really sure what happens next.
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