Chapter 2

The money that Diane and Ron Morrison had lent their son in order for him to keep his apartment did not put them in such a situation that they had to abstain from going to their weekly Italian dinner Tuesday nights or hiring Julita, the unassuming, quiet Hispanic woman to come clean their home twice a week. Indeed, they were perfectly well off financially and, although their son was well into his twenties and, in their opinion, should be able to support himself by now, did not think twice about helping their only son when they found out he needed it. He did not tell them he needed it, of course, because he was not the type to do so – however difficult it was, he tried to pay for his rent by himself. But after Kurt had changed apartments three times in five months, they began to be suspicious, and when he told them, through violent tears, that he had been kicked out of his previous two rooms for not paying the rent on time, they decided it was time that they stepped in. He initially refused, but gave in when his emotions died down and he realized he really did need the help.

He had managed to hold down this job at the real estate agency for a solid two months, and his parents had had to pay less of his rent than they had before he had found this job. The owner of the company was a friend of his father’s, and while he did not have much (any) experience in the business, the friend had promised to show Kurt the ropes and get him involved, working and helping with other agents. Kurt’s father, a doctor, had cured this man’s son’s sinus problems, when they had been told by every other doctor that they were in fact incurable. So, while Kurt was not always the most reliable, friendly, or diligent employee, the owner was forced to softly bite his tongue as he woke up less and less in the middle of the night to the sound of his son wheezing. He despised the sound immensely.

When, the week before, Kurt had been assigned to analyze an area with Sheila, two years his senior and owner of a real estate license, he had been ecstatic. He noticed her out of the mess of faces he saw on his first day, and after meeting her had furtively snuck glances at her soft features and shoulder length black hair for a few weeks before gathering the courage to ask her how she liked working there. The report, which was to be presented to the city council that Monday afternoon, was soon the object of dreams, drawings, thoughts, and everything else that Kurt had on his mind since he started looking at houses with Sheila. He imagined them picking one out as their own. He imagined walking into one to see her in bed in a soft satin outfit she had gotten for his birthday. He had been so infatuated that he had offered to finish the report himself, despite his not having completed one up until that point, or, as it would turn out, after that point as well. He swore to her that he had books on how to write reports, that his father was a real estate agent, that she could put all of his trust in him and he would pull through with flying colors.

Of course, he did not end up finishing the report. He had started, and intended to finish it, but got quickly agitated. As had been a pattern of late for him, he lost his temper. He was unhappy with the way it sounded, could not get the computer to do the font he wanted, and, as he was trying to do too many functions at once, the machine, much to his chagrin, slowed down. He responded by kicking the machine violently, then threw the keyboard across the room, and threw a punch at the monitor. The screen went limp and black, and Kurt sat in the dead quiet of his apartment surrounded by lifeless parts of a computer, the only audible sound being his heavy, damp breathing.

He wobbled into the kitchen and opened a drawer looking for any alcohol he had left. There was nothing in the fridge or the pantry, so he opened a number of other drawers before coming across the medicine his parents had told him to get, and, when he didn’t go to the pharmacy to get it, they had delivered it to him themselves: Fixitall. His stance on the pills was simple and radical: there was no way they were going to enter his body. It was his life, and he could deal with it. His parents, not wanting to argue with him, simply left quietly and wondered if it would be in the garbage disposal by the time they had driven home.

He decided that that particular time would be as good as any to try Fixitall, and he dryly downed a handful of pills, not bothering to read the label. He felt a cold hand grasp his heart and his pugnacious bloodstream slow to a calm, soothing stream. He started for his bed but fell halfway there, mouth half-open and the bottle of Fixitall held weakly in his right hand.
He awoke the next morning twenty minutes before work with a hideous headache, threw on the shirt from the middle of the laundry pile, and left without seeing the computer in pieces in the other room.

After a furiously paced fifteen minute walk home, Kurt threw open his door and looked quickly around his room, which lay the same as when he left it that morning. He ran into the office room, saw the pieces of black plastic strewn about the room, and screamed “Piece of SHIT!” at the top of his lungs. He kicked the monitor, which lay sideways on the floor, once more for good measure, and went back into the main area of his apartment. Fuming, he threw his jacket on the floor. Next to the spot it landed was the small bottle of Fixitall he had taken with him the night before, until he had collapsed before making it to his bed. He picked it up, looked around, and said “Fixitall, huh? Let’s see if you can,” downed the rest of the pills like they were the remaining soda wading at the bottom of a can, and waited for the icy hand to grasp his heart again.
He sat down and waited. He began to think about Sheila’s body again, about removing her shirt, slipping off her jeans…
It hit him. He grasped his left side with his right hand, groaned, and fell to the floor with a thud, which was soon enveloped by the thick silence of his apartment.