Bang Yer Head

The harsh winter sun woke him. He'd never bothered to put the cardboard chunks back over the windows the last time they'd fallen off, gathering dust behind the dresser, masking tape still stuck to the wall. It was noonish; he could hear Terry Gross declaring it was "frrresh airrr" every couple of minutes. He had nothing pressing till work at four, so he lay still, slowly gathering his marbles.

His bed had been a gift from his parents' neighbors, fifteen years ago, when they'd gotten a Craft-Matic. He'd had it in his old bedroom there for eight years before he'd moved, and now another seven, and it had about had it. The mattress, which he'd bought when he got the trailer, had a shredded spot on one side and a large blood stain on the other. The bookcase headboard was encrusted with years of grime: Pledge buildup, pop can rings, peanut dust. The same paperback books had been there for a few years; the cassettes, about a year, but the CDs rotated frequently. There was a fairly new boombox, currently tuned to NPR; a desk lamp gotten at Lowe's last year with the $100 gift card from his parents, along with a knife, extension cords, a new doorknob for the bathroom, energy saving bulbs, and assorted other crap; and a brace made of heavy books and a binder holding the blanket tight against the wall behind the bed, blocking the light from a window, made completely pointless by the fallen cardboard across the room. The cats peed in the closet at some undocumented point in the recent past, so the bedroom door was closed; the room was toasty warm from the electric oil heater near the door. He couldn't afford to run the furnace much. There were two dressers, two bookcases and a chair, along with the bed, all crammed into this tiny space. He hated to throw anything out. One of the bookcases held nothing but old music magazines: Rolling Stone, Q, Mojo, Uncut, The Big Takeover. You never know, maybe someday he'd have money, and he'd want to look through them and pick up the albums he couldn't afford before. Ayeah. With no one around to say yea or nay, he scratched himself, good and long, exploring the sac for itches to satisfy, then rose to use the john and begin another blurry day. He swayed a little, the blood swooshing from the unaccustomed verticality, and hit his head on the wall. Hey, there's the thing that will make today special, he thought. I hit my head on the wall.