Absolutely Shameless

The tormenting sound of the alarm clock let me know that someone didn’t pop a twelve-gauge slug in my forehead splattering my brain all over my unwashed pillowcase.  For if they killed and robbed me they would be highly pissed that all of it would be for a five-disk CD changer with a tray that no longer turned.  I, Arnie Carbuckle rose for another day, and no one in the world was cheerleading that I still existed. 

I climbed out of my bed with a piercing headache.  Grant and I had killed a whole bottle of Jose Cuervo and a twelve pack of brews the night before.  Of course, once again, when you sleep full of beer, the sprinklers want to cut on in the morning.  As I headed to the bathroom I thought about the night before.  I always did.  Grant did his normal Sunday night bitch session about his two girlfriends, Sasha and Tawanda.  He had two girlfriends that he loved and I couldn’t even get a sane date.  And he was the one that cried in his beer bottles.  The funny thing was that both girlfriends knew each other and they were perfectly content with him being with both of them.  No threesome or any freaky sex thing.  They were just content that they shared a man and both loved him equally.  He was a lucky son of a bitch.

I entered the bathroom and sink was filthy, full of afro naps from Grant’s hair.  Every time he cut his hair he never cleaned it up.  I lifted the toilet seat up and the overpowering odor of urine sailed into my nose.  The toilet seemed to be painted with yellow spots as an obvious sign that Grant, as usual, hadn’t done his monthly bathroom chores.  I swore on my dead drunk uncle that if I didn’t live here this place would have fungi growing out the air conditioner vents.  Just because he had let me move in didn’t mean I was Arnie the handmaiden.  He seemed to forget that we split the rent, but it’s cool. 

I finished my business, zipped up my pants, and immediately headed for the kitchen cabinet in search of aspirin.  The aspirin changed location every weekend from one cabinet to the next.  It was like playing hide and go-seek with a Titanic size headache crashing down through my cerebellum.  I swung cabinet doors open and I finally found them snuggled next to a row of cups.  I removed the childproof lid and tossed four of them down my throat.  I closed the lid and placed them in another cabinet so this time when Grant woke up he would have no idea where they were.

I looked at the clock and waited for it to hit 9:00 a.m. I knew the phone would ring as it always had.  It would be the hospital wanting me to deliver a message to an unlucky parent or relative.  The phone rang at 9:00 a.m. on the nose and I walked to the living room coffee table to answer it.  I picked up the cordless headset and placed it to my ear.

“Hello.”  I answered uninterested.

“Hey Arnie, how are you? This is Dr. Jay Beckett.  This is the number I was told to call in search of the Bearer of Bad News.”  Jay said happily.

“This is the guy.   Is it a death, rape, homicide, suicide, or robbery?”  I asked like a robot.

“Actually, I need you to go to 233 Wicher Lane and let Mr. and Mrs. Iles know that their daughter was drunk behind the wheel and crashed into a tree, but only suffered whiplash and some bruises.  She will make it through okay and they should come down to see her.  Thank you very much.”  Jay said.

“You’re welcome.”  I said pleasantly.

I hung up the phone and thought about the Iles daughter.  Her name was Franchesca.  She was a pretty cute girl, but unbelievably dumb.  I was going to hook up with her at one time until I found out that she hooked up with half the football team.  I figured fifty-seventh sloppy seconds wasn’t that delightful or scrumptious to me. 

I did the normal routine.  I showered, shaved, and got dressed in my slacks and a button-up shirt.  I grabbed my keys from off the counter and once again was ready to face the world.  I walked outside and locked the door behind me.  I walked to my beat up 1989 F-150 truck, opened the heavy door, climbed in, started the engine and drove off heading to the Iles’ house. 

As I cruised the streets people watered their lawns and fetched their morning newspapers.  They breathed a sigh of relief when my truck passed their house by without stopping.  They all knew my job and they knew when I was searching for an address to deliver terrible news.  On Saturday and Sunday nights there are crazy rave parties at Club Psychotic.  There was usually something wild or tragic that happened there every weekend.  They knew their child would be there and hoped it would be the neighbor’s child to get sideswiped by a runaway jeep and not theirs. 

I turned on to Wicher Lane and looked for the address.  Even though I had been there before I still had trouble finding it.  I remembered how, before they invented the Bearer of Bad News Service, the doctors had to go door to door to deliver the news.  In the s