You Better Take Your Time, and Meditate on Your Rhyme

by Robb Todd

Bettie had a plane to catch, a funeral to cry at (at which to cry?). Julius hadn’t shaved or hit the gym in two months. Now he’s gonna have a gut in all their vacation pictures from Hawaii.

Julius missed Bettie already, even if he couldn’t admit it. He should have told her that. What happened to bereavement fares? Motherfucking scumbag airlines. Didn’t we just bail out their sorry asses not too long ago?

Julius went to the gym to start over. Oprah was on the HD flat screen in the locker room. The men’s locker room. This made him angry. Some skinny trainer was on one of the plush leather chairs, feet propped up, watching O be fat. The trainer took a hit off his asthma inhaler.

In the gym, Julius stretched, but just a little. Not two months worth of stretching. He did some crunches. He could only do 15 dips. He hopped on the elliptical trainer. Everything on the row of TVs in front of the cardio machines made him angry. Bush’s fucking face, the Weather Channel, the economy, the commercials, coverage of the Santa Claus killings. “Murder. Suicide. Santa.” on CNN. Julius wanted to smash the TV.

After 45 minutes of furious ellipses, he tried to meditate in the steam room. Old wrinkly dicks wagged all over the place. He endured the hissing steam and fought the thoughts about bullshit at work, and his dirty apartment, and Bettie’s grandma who passed, and their cat that shits everywhere, and this fucking country that continually screws its citizens over, and we all just bend over and take it. After 30 minutes of sweating, he finally was able to put all that aside and count ten breaths with his mind in neutral. It felt good. But just ten, and it all came rushing back.

Julius took a cold shower, used the gym’s complimentary shaving cream and two of the complimentary razors to hack through a weak excuse for a beard. He used the complimentary lotion on his face and arms, the complimentary mouthwash because he forgot to brush, and the complimentary Q-tips because you know why. He left.

There were still patches of snow on the ground, but the ice had melted. It will be warm at the funeral. Even warmer in Hawaii. Julius counted his breaths as he walked down the stairs to the subway, and he counted them again as he walked up the stairs to his apartment building. Some pigeons scattered into the fire escapes. He counted his breaths as he walked up the seven flights of stairs inside his building, no doorman, no elevator. He counted his breaths as he sat on his couch, trying to catch each one, but couldn’t.

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~ This piece was posted on Tuesday, February 24th, 2009 and was filed under Blog, Featured, Short Story, Writing. You can make comments on it below. ~