Night Shift

The sky flicked the sun into the sea like a cigarette butt.  Darkness came in stages; pink became blue, blue became purple, and then black stamped all over everything.  Every day was a party.  Every night was a depressing, nine month Alaskan winter.  When the sun was up, I drank cold beers and passed joints with my friends.  They’d eventually get tired or bored.  They passed out on the sofas and on the floor.  Then they got up and drove dangerously into the evening.  I never worried about them.  I had bigger things to worry about.

I had a tennis ball that I liked to bounce off the wall.  The repetitive thud followed by the pop of my palm was a soothing metronome for my brain.  But it drove the neighbors crazy.  On the left I had a big brown-haired sow with three chubby kids, boys with bad teeth.  She complained first.  I answered her aggressive knocks wearing socks and my shorts, no shirt.  She was sweating from the walk down the hall.  A cotton robe with armpit stains desperately held together around her waist.  “How’s it going, sweetie?”  She didn’t like that.  Now I had a wild boar on my hands.  That fat face flushed red.  A light froth developed at the edges of her mouth.  “What’s your goddamn problem?  Enough with the fucking ball.  I’ve got kids.  They’ve got school in the morning.  One more bounce and I’m calling the cops.”

She always played the kids card.  It wasn’t my fault she let some beer-stinking truck driver lift her skirt without a condom.  Worse even, she let it happen three separate times.  She was raising the kids on her own, mostly.  The father stopped by every three or four weeks.  He never stayed more than two nights.  The kids probably drove him mad.  He only stopped by to eat ham sandwiches, swat the kids’ behinds, and argue with the mother.  My tennis ball against the wall was the least of their problems.

I gave her a smile and shut the door in her face.  I knew that would get her blood pressure close to heart attack level.  She banged her canned ham fists on the door again, waddled back down the hall, and slammed her door.  I went back to my chair and light a cigarette.

I looked for the tennis ball.  I wanted to give it one more toss.  I wanted to call her bluff.  The cops were too busy to hassle some guy for bouncing a tennis ball off the wall.  Lucky for her, I couldn’t find the ball.  I checked under the bed and in all the corners.  Nothing.  Oh well.

I moved my desk to the other side of the room.  The legs threatened to snap off.  It left long scars across the floor.  Maybe the change of scenery would help me write.  I sat there looking at the curser.  It blinked in Morris code.  I didn’t understand the message.

After I finished all my cigarettes, I gave up on writing.  The clock said four-forty-seven.  The sky was at its blackest.  I stood up and walked to the closet.  Under the dirty laundry there was a three-pack of tennis balls with one missing.  I pulled the second out and gave it a good squeeze.  I blew my nose into a dirty shirt and threw the tennis ball against the wall.  It made a good, echoing knock and bounced back.

The cops never showed up.