/lit/ - Literature

>>23173548
Ted sends me out back to pick up the rent.
"He's late."
"Fuck it, man. He's always late," but the guy won't pick up his phone and Ted can't stand speakin' to him otherwise--the guy doesn't know how to shut up and he's always bullshitting about being an author. And author my ass--I saw him shitting in a bucket not a fuckin' month ago.
"Why don't you just kick this slob out?"
"Fred, where else you gonna find a tenant who'll shit in a bucket for $600 a month?"
"Yeah yeah."
So I head back.

Spring, when it's wet and just startin' out, has a dyin' smell--all the raggedy leaves and shit from the fall start reeking up from the mud. Mouldy, maybe. Anyway, smells like that when I go back there. Smells real bad, in fact, and I think about how much I hate this bum in the shack out back here, and I think I better not catch him shittin' on the bucket again. And fuck, that smell better not be the bucket, 'cause it gets worse as I get up to the door and I wanna wring Ted for sending me here. Gettin' ready for another "sorry bro I was in the mode forgot what day it was" while I'm knockin' at the door.
"Hey--" I forgot his fuckin' name, so I just start bangin' louder and ya' know "Hey HEY HEY" but nothin'.

"Hey, Ted, you sure he's out there? Nothin' when I knocked."
"Fucksake, yeah I know he's out there, lights been on all week and it's not like that bum goes to work."
Ted gets pissy as he grabs the key.
"Yer' still comin' with," and we both go back.

This time, while we're at the door and I'm thinkin' about the smell I start to think about the light too, and about the phone. Ted's banged a couple times, yelled out a couple "Jason! open the fuck up!" and now he's got the key in the door--you have to jiggle the shit, so it's not a one-second deal. Anyway a bad thought cuts through me and I grab Ted's wrist.
"Light's been on all week, he won't pick up the phone, and he's not comin' to the door?"
"Yeah, well no shit."
"Ted, Chrissake, could he be fuckin' dead?"
When I say it the colour goes out on Ted's face, but much to my surprise--much as I don't want him to--he's now jigglin' that key harder than ever, and he's shoutin' some pretty scared-soundin'
"Hey Jason! Jason, fucksake, Jason, open the fuck up!"
which, of course, doesn't get much of a response, but finally the lock clicks and that ugly start-of-spring smell hits me harder.

Now I realise I didn't have it so bad when I caught this guy--Jason, I know now--crappin' on the bucket. I realise I got no stomach for whatever cops or EMTs or embalmers or whoever go through in those cases you read about online--those cases where somebody left all alone dies and nobody knows it for a good while. Because rotten meat in the fridge is bad enough for me, and catchin' sight of some guy's mouse-eaten face sagging onto a stale PBR is way too much. When we got in the room he'd practically melted over one of those rainbow-colour keyboards the fuckin' kids are on, and meanwhile the screen's still lit up.

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