Blackout
My roommate took off right before I lost my job at the pizza place. The only thing he left behind was a note that read, “Moved back home.” If only the unpaid rent were attached to it.
I sit at the wobbly kitchen table, gazing at the floating dust particles that you can only see when the sunlight shines in at the perfect angle. Sometimes, you have to convince yourself that they aren’t old skin.
The air conditioner moans, as if it’s irritated that it has to work so hard. I haven’t left the apartment in four days, for fear that the hellish temperature might melt away my spirit even more. Is a heat wave a heat wave if it doesn’t end? I gulp down the remainder of my orange juice. The pulp sticks to the side of the glass. It always bothers me when that happens.
As I stand up to go put my head into the freezer, the air conditioner suddenly goes on a strike of silence, and the refrigerator releases a final gasp. I walk across the room and flip the light switch. Nothing.
There’s a knock at the door. I peer through the peephole. It’s the lady with the beehive hair from across the hall. I crack the door open.
“Is your power out?” she asks.
“Yes,” I answer.
“It must be the whole building,” she says.
“Maybe the whole city,” I say.
“The food in your fridge will go bad after four hours,” she says.
I’d take that information to heart if I had any food in the refrigerator.
“Thanks,” I say as I close the door.
When the power goes out, it’s amazing how all of your habits remind you that you’re nothing without it. The TV isn’t going to turn on, and your phone isn’t going to charge.
There’s another knock at the door. It’s the guy from downstairs who exclusively wears jorts. “Do you want a new roommate?” he asks.
“What?”
He nods his head to the left. I glance down the hallway and see a scraggly, black cat with a patch of white fur on its chest.
“It was out lying in the sun,” the guy says. “Looked a bit overheated, so I let it inside.”
Before I can say anything, the cat walks through the doorway and rubs against my leg.
“Catch you later,” the guy says.
I fill up a bowl with some cold water and set it on the floor. The cat dashes over and drinks furiously.
At least water is free, I think to myself. Kind of.
I head into my dingy bedroom and grab the coin jar off of my dresser. “This should be enough to get you some food,” I say.
I step out the apartment door and look back at the cat.
“I think I’ll call you Blackout.”
What Do I Wear to My Friend’s Funeral?
I didn’t reply to Jacob’s last text message, but I did show up to his funeral. I’d spent the entire morning deciding what to wear. A lot of the clothes that I once wore don’t quite fit me the way they used to in high school.
Is wearing black to a funeral mandatory? If funerals are truly meant to be a celebration of life, why can’t people wear something bright? I thought about wearing my orange polo, but I was worried I’d stand out too much. Maybe the key is to wear something somewhere in-between. So I went with gray.
A funeral is just a little bit different from a high school reunion. At high school reunions, you get to see who potentially has their life together and who doesn’t. At funerals, you get to see who shows up at all. I don’t see anyone from high school here.
I blend in at the burial ceremony. A putrid stench wafts off of the marshy pond in the background of the cemetery. People pretend not to notice. But the more that people pretend not to notice something, the more you notice them pretending not to notice something. This is when I realize that sunglasses weren’t invented to keep the sun out of your eyes. They were invented to wear at funerals. A split second of eye contact can send you into a dizzying spiral.
I watch Jacob’s mother go through three entire boxes of tissues. Jacob’s stepfather, who used to step all over him, half-heartedly attempts to comfort her. He rolls his eyes. I can’t help but grind my teeth.
Jacob was a bit strange. And even a little irksome sometimes. But maybe Jacob just wanted some company. Maybe he wanted an ever-so-brief escape from his home. I regret the time he knocked on my door and I told my mom to tell him I wasn’t home. I regret the time I didn’t invite him to my birthday get-together. It’s amazing how get-togethers can actually push people apart. I really wish I would have answered that last text message, even if it was about a movie I had no intention of ever seeing.
My grinding teeth come to a halt, like a train stopping when the conductor sees a problem on the tracks. I duck out of the burial and head to my rusted Subaru. I break down inside of the car that has its own breakdowns.
Someday, our bones, our brains, and our hearts won’t feel a thing. But right now I need to go home and change.
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Zach Murphy is a Hawaii-born writer with a background in cinema. His stories appear in Reed Magazine, The Coachella Review, Maudlin House, Eastern Iowa Review, and Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine. He has published the chapbook Tiny Universes (Selcouth Station Press). He lives with his wonderful wife Kelly in St. Paul, Minnesota.
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Michael Anderson takes pictures while traveling in national parks, rural counties, and cities. He carries his camera while running errands on his bicycle in Chicago.
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