Salt & Pepper

I plan to get back into writing, and hope to publish a book of short stories that my partner and I write. We’ve both been getting back into writing and reading which has been a great escape. They write their stories, I write mine.

Here is a short story I wrote back in 2015. I hope you like reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it :)

There it is again. That sick feeling in my gut, that sour stew resting inside of me.

See this is what happens when I wake up and have no idea where I am. This happens offen. I'm in a fuzzy consciousness but I'm awake enough to know that I don't know where I am. I'm awake enough to notice the stench of last nights lies; infused with 'maybe I shouldn't be here'.

“Hey.”

“Yeah…where am I?”

“You're in my house and everyone left, why are you still here? You need to leave or..

Or if you can cook us some chorizo and eggs, you can stay. “

“I..okay. Okay I can cook us some eggs but you still haven't told me where I am.”

“You are in my apartment. Eggs are on the bottom shelf, you'll find the rest on your own, I need to get ready.”

The kitchen is tiny and has really expensive furniture inside of it. The kind of furniture that you'd see in a trashy pop music video, or in those Swedish interior design magazines. This world is foreign to me. I mean what do I know anyway, I'm a charasmatic junkie. I get myself into weird situations all of the time and somehow always charm my way out of them.

_______

I can hear her yelling from across the the apartment as I stuff another piece of organic meat into my mouth. Maybe I shouldn't have done that. Maybe now my stomach will ache much worse. Maybe I'll use her perfectly remodeled bathroom and maybe I'll raid her medicine cabinet. Just like I always do, and maybe I'll find something good. By good I actually mean something bad for me; but what do I care? I've embodied this lifestyle for so long that this is all uniform.

It would be off kilter for me to not steal all of her pharmaceutical treasures and abuse them.

She's sitting down with her legs crossed on top of her tiny, perfect, red kitchen table. She has terrible posture and is trying to look cute and delicate as she picks at her plate of eggs and chorizo.

She doesn't know she has a spot of hot sauce on the side of her mouth. I refrain from telling her because THAT'S what I find cute, not the fact that she's picking at her food as if it doesn't exist.

“So Chaplin, where did your parents get that name from?”

Nowhere, I made that up. Ha. I always use Chaplin as a backup name whenever I get too fucked up and forget my real name, Jeremiah. Or is it Chaplin at this point? Does it really matter? What's in a name anyhow when you don't feel like anyone, or anything.

“Uh… I think its from an old comedian or something.”

“Cool. Thats cool. So, how do you know Margaret? You guys were pretty close last night. She had to leave early this morning for work. Her boss is a total jerk if she's late or seems hungover.”

Who is Margaret? Why do I care about her jerk boss and why am I being asked so many questions? Why, why, why? Although I should be used to this by now. Being asked questions that will never recieve a truth.

“Oh yeah, we— oh wow! Where did you get these salt and pepper shakers? My grandmother has these same ones when I was a kid and I used to play with them as if they were toys.”

This was a truth. I slide those into conversations so that I don't lose myself. At least not any more than I already have. Sometimes I really believe my own lies. Fact or fiction, they both seem to be cut from the same cloth anymore.

________

She had a sense of pride now when she spoke. I mean here is this handsome stranger, half naked standing inside of her kitchen, asking about and approving of her things. She often tries too hard, but her posture is better now. Now that she knows she can talk about herself.

“I found these little guys at the flea market down on 22nd Ave. You know the one.”

I don't.

“Oh yeah. That place is great! So, do you think you could drop me off at the bus station at some point today?”

“Sure, but at some point today'? Don't you have anywhere to be, Chaplin? I mean, you are the last one to wake up, and the only one here now. We are in our twenties, don't you have to be at work or something?”

What is wrong with this girl? Why must she make me answer so many questions? I don't even know her name. Hell, I don't even know where I am.

_______

“You know, you ask a lot of questions.”

“Well you ARE inside of my kitchen cooking my eggs, and you don't have a shirt or socks on, so, I think I deserve some answers, don't you?”

“Sure. Look I'll answer you but can I use your bathroom real quick?”

“Yeah, sure. It's down the hall; last door on the right. Make sure you're careful closing the door though, I just had it installed along with some other new renovations.”

Again. Why do I care about any of this? Just tell me where the bathroom is so I can raid your cabinets as if they were my own.

I reach the end of the hallway and I could feel her eyes on me the entire way. I gently grab the stupid Swedish door knob and enter the nicest bathroom I've ever been in. My heart is pounding and my body is aching for the same release I always crave.

_______

That rush that passes through my entire being and makes me feel like I can do anything. Maybe I starve for that feeling because I'm usually doing nothing. Maybe I starve for a reality that I cannot control. I never feel in control. Maybe I'm okay. Maybe I should close the store now. Maybe my actual name is Jeremiah Maust and I'm dirty, lying junkie who raids strangers medicine cabinets.

My body lunged for the cabinet in panic and desperation to find something good. To no surprise at alI, I managed to find half bottle of perk 30's and some oxys. In my world, my stupid junkie world… this is a triumph. How did these little pieces of gold survive the party last night? How did I survive the party last night?

Maybe Margaret saved me. I still don't remember what she looks like, but with a name like Margaret, I'd bet that she's hot. It doesn't matter though because I'll probably never see her again. Not that I'd even know if it was her. Maybe we had sex, or did a lot of drugs. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that I found gold just like I knew I would.

______

“Chaplin! Are you almost done? I need to leave soon.”

This girl just sounds like a high pitch noise. I can quickly understand why her last boyfriend left her. I also wonder what she sounds like when she's getting fucked. Maybe I should leave this bathroom now. Me and my thoughts are too filthy to even be inside of this bathroom, this apartment.

“Hey, yeah, I'm ready. How far is the bus station from here?”

“It's only a 10 minute drive and its on the way to my job, so giving you a lift is no trouble, but we need to leave like, now.”

“Sure, I just need to grab my shirt and sweater from the kitchen.”

I gather my shit from off of the floor and slide them onto my body. I can't find my shoes, but then again, can I ever?

_______

“Hey are these your shoes? The white and gray ones?”

“Thanks yeah, those are them alright.”

I help myself to one more thing from the kitchen and meet her in the hallway. I can feel her sizing me up as I slip my sneakers on; without any socks of course, as this is also a constant in my life. Losing articles of clothing along with moments of my life my stupid, junkie life.

I follow her out to her car and decide to walk instead.

“Hey look, thanks for the eggs, the party and ride offer, but I think I'll just walk instead. I didn't realize where we were and I really prefer to walk.”

“Are you sure, it's literally on the way to my job and it's no trouble at all.”

________

“Yeah, really, its cool. I know exactly where I am now.”

I don't.

“Alright Chaplin, well it was so great to meet you! You're a very interesting person and I think you'd be great for Margaret.”

Margaret. There she is again, this person who I could have shared anything with but have no real idea who she is or what she looks like. This sort of thing happens often. Things around me happen and I do things that I don't remember doing. Meeting people that almost never existed in my world. Large chunks of my life are nothing but a blur. That's what Margaret looks like, a blur; with nice tits and a big ass.

“Is that right? Well, I'll be seeing you. Tell Margaret I said that I think she's great.”

Before she could respond, I turned my back to her and started walking. I didn't know where I was or where I was going. All I knew for sure was that inside of my denim jean pockets were two bottles of gold, and a salt and pepper shaker that is the truth.

-End-

Till next time

-Jay