Video Love (The Poofless Epic)

Chapter 33

March 11, 2013 at 5 AM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob

I take one last look before I slide the plain black and white Picasso duplicate into a small garbage bag to protect it from getting shifted around in the truck, and I set it on top of the precarious tower of boxes next to the front door. The movers will be here in three hours to start loading up all of my crap and make the twenty minute trip to the next in my neverending chain of apartments, this one a little farther from the downtown area and the growing horde of homeless people who live down in the drainage ditch. I used to have a theory about them when I was a kid, and even thinking about it sends a shiver down my spine. Is there really an underground city of beggars living in the sewer system, like old and failed Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, or was that just something that Dad encouraged me to think to keep me from wandering too close to the grey, rushing flood water from the snow melt? If only I was as brave as Mat, I would already know the answer.

'You said you didn't want to think about Mat anymore.' A twinge of anxiety flashes in the pit of my stomach and I decide that working on my next disaster is the best way to keep my mind from drifting back to him and his perilous travels. I can't always be there to babysit him. That isn't my job.

I meander my way back into my office and begin unplugging the intricate web of cables from my desktop computer, cringing when I see the sandy mounds of crumbs that have accumulated under my keyboard. I think I just found out why my W key was sticking this morning. I turn the poor thing upside down and tap it, watching in horror as a thin veil of food particles, skin cells, curly hair, and a single fingernail tumble out from between the badly worn keys. Per usual, I have no one to blame for this but myself, and I hastily stuff the filthy thing against the side of a new box to hopefully keep it from spreading its grime on anything else. I fill the rest of the box with the odds and ends from the two desk drawers and the shelves on either side of the monitors, my eyes catching on the empty shell of my now dead first laptop.

"This is the end of the line for you. You fought honorably, old friend. Jerome can put you out of your misery the next time he flies up to see Mitch." The thought of relatively fresh computer parts will be enough to make the Bacca drool all down the front of his days-old, Otter-Pop-stained, chicken-scented t-shirt. I gently wipe the fresh layer of dust off of the navy blue computer before I slide it on top of the collection of crap in the box and fold the flaps of the box over each other to keep it sealed during the move; this is what happens when you're too cheap to buy packing tape. I wrap the computer monitors in clean bath towels before putting them together in a box of their own, their simple togetherness making me long for something I know I can't have. At least, not yet. My plans get me into enough trouble as it is - I don't need to be dragging anyone else into this mess right now. That might be something I can think about in two or three weeks, if my good luck streak of decent moods and livable sleep schedules keeps it up.

When I move these next two boxes out to the living room, my eyes go back to the Picasso replica and settle there. Jerome had bought it for me as a joke right after we first met, his way of taking a jab at my stubbornness and my daily pill cocktail without getting his parents and Mitch on his case. At first I didn't understand why Jerome had drawn me a picture (or what it was supposed to be a picture of), but it has become a pretty common metaphor for my nutiness. He calls me 'The Knight of the Woeful Countenance,' I call him my less-than-noble steed, and he still insists on calling Preston my Dulcinea. I'm used to being called crazy; it's just a part of who I am now. However, the Princess Peachston joke is quickly wearing out.

'I wonder how his life is with Hannah.' I even think it more bitterly than I want to. He hates it in Washington - I can hear it in his voice every time he calls. And he calls a lot these days, more than he could possibly expect one person to be able to answer. Ironically, now I have more of a life than Preston does and I have a sneaking suspicion that he might be doping up on sleeping pills and antidepressants soon, too. He sits at home, trolling around online, gaming, and watching TV all day, every day with no friends, no family, and no girlfriend in sight. He said she was driving down to see him this weekend and they were going to go on some boat tour along the coastline for the afternoon, and the thought of wired, impatient Preston getting so excited about a lame ass boat ride is pitiful and a little bit concerning. That level of suspense should be reserved for hype video game releases and excursions to Five Guys five minutes before they close for the night. He was even interested in me deciding to move away from the fringes and toward the suburbs, and we spent an absurd amount of time talking on Skype while I packed and he unpacked. No offense to him but I might say that I had issues getting my internet set up at my new place just so I can take a day off from trying to entertain him and distract him from his unsatisfying life decisions. I'm not going to be his babysitter anymore, either, and he can eat the crock of shit he made himself; I don't need to take a taste to know it's awful. Maybe if he climbs in and boils with it for a while, he might grow up a bit and start considering how his choices can screw him over in the long term.