Pale Fragments

hell's fire inspector

One leg was in his shorts and was shoving garbage out of the way on the path from his recliner to the door (which was in the corner facing the TV), his head was stuck inside his partially donned shirt, and his arms were waving like he was a gorilla dancing at its first fire as he plunged deodorant into his armpits. Xadrin fell over. He was tired. He was high. Had stayed up until, uh, what time was it?, until ten in the morning. He couldn't even remember when he had woken up the day before.

The fire inspector was, apparently, coming.

"Deoooderant, I suppooose," he said (he was pretty sure he'd said it), bending over in sync with a British slant of his words and setting the stick of Old Spice back on his desk. "Very nice," he said, out loud, for sure this time. He was pretty sure.

(Xadrin [Grace said] was incredibly intelligent in some impressive ways, but in most he apathetically revealed his stupidities as though unaware. [She laughed lightly and giddily and she spoke, dimple appearing as she remembered her long-lost lover.)

"Very nice," he almost shouted, extending his pinky like a queen or confused hitchhiker. He curtsied as he started standing, both because he stood up too fast and because the motion fit the current stoned dramatic motif. He stood and it ended. The swelling orchestral music in his mind, in the middle of the romantic climax where, if it were a movie, the until-then-distant lovers finally push themselves into each other—the music was cut off by his ringtone, an explosive police siren.

His roommate, Jesse, was calling him again. "I just thought of something," he said.

"Yes?" Xadrin said suspiciously, accent gone (and he reminded himself, again, to change his ringtone). He placed his elbows precariously on his messy desk. He held the phone snuggly against his ear and squinted his eyes as if he were negotiating for the lives of hostages.

"Have you slept?" Jesse asked like a step-father (slightly disappointed but not surprised and apathetic-but-trying-for-the-wife). (He acted like one, too. He was a year younger than Xadrin but almost totally bald; he worked construction; he only used Facebook; he had a beer after work every day after having one while he was there (and had the belly to show for it); and once, when Xadrin asked if he wanted to smoke later, said, "No it's already nine, I oughta get to bed. Got work at 5 tomorrow morning.")

"No, I haven't, sir."

"Well, alright. I just thought of something. I was thinking you should put away the ash tray and your empty cigarette box that're on the kitchen table."

"Oh shit, yeah, I didn't even think of that. Thank you for thinking of it. Good thing to think of."

"Yeah. Probably best they don't see that we smoke in the apartment."

"Are they gonna sniff around and shit?"

"What? No. Might be a good idea to hide that pen you've been hitting all night, though."

"Oh shit, yeah. Thanks dude. So, like, they're going to go in our rooms, and stuff? Are they allowed to arrest people?"

"Yeah, they're just gonna knock on the door and come look around to make sure it's all safe and stuff. And, no, they can't arrest you."

"Alright, cool. You sure? Okay, okay. That's good to know. Thanks man. Have a good day at work."

"You too—" he laughed a lung producing cough that lasted ten seconds. "Ha, I was about to say, aHEM, 'You too,' but then I remembered that you don't have a job!" His chuckle felt like an icing which looked poisonous but which tasted just fine.

(For Xadrin liked him; they were, as many dependable male bonds, sitting safely on the precipice of intimate friendship. The great place where cutting, personal insults can readily be accepted warmly as the highest of praises. Whenever they cried in front of the other, you could count on the listener and affirmer to never mention it again. "It's okay. Fuck that bitch dude," one of them would say as the other's head limped and swayed dangerously close to the other's shoulder; the phrase "no homo" ready on both their lips. "Not literally, because fuck her—but, fuck 'er, y'know? Tomorrow, hey, listen, stay with me man, tomorrow I swear we'll be able to talk about your truck and the weather and video games, yes, okay, yes, I promise, just like it never happened.")