the refrigerator

I made my way from the couch in the living room to the refrigerator in the kitchen. A big, double door, metallic silver, rectangular, son of bitch, that read “Sub Zero” center mass. Which always puzzles me because it seems to not keep things as cold as expected. I decided to reach for the door with my left hand this time. Fingers curled like a hook. Pulling the door towards me. Only having to jerk it once or twice because the door rubber suction contact to the main frame.

            I peered in, beginning to wonder what my neighbor Amy meant earlier by calling me a deadbeat from across the apartment courtyard. We have been friends for some time now. And I like her. I even like her five cats – Peter, Zelda, Rosie, Elmer, and Mr. Speckle Cakes. At some point, she mentioned the deeper meaning of her cat’s names - I just wasn’t paying attention. They are good cats as far as I’m concerned, but Amy was frazzled more than usual this morning. Maybe she hasn’t been taking her medications. She never told me she was using medication, though. We are friends, but not that close of friends. Honestly, Amy might benefit from the proper medication. I know I would.

            And Alex. He didn’t seem happy about something last Tuesday night. We were drinking at the bar and all he could talk about was his alcoholic father, and so on. Alex has been divorced twice, but who am I to judge. I’ve maintained being single for almost eight years and counting. Maybe Amy was right? She was more than likely off her medications, or hasn’t found the right psychiatrist. Next time we talk I’ll give her the number to my psychiatrist, or at least my therapist.

            Alex is a whole other story. He doesn’t have a medication problem. He just drinks too much. Too much liquor. Light beers and even wine is fine. It’s the liquor that pulls him under. I am sure of this. Once the fire water is pumping through his veins, the guy can’t shut up. He has problems. We all have problems, so get in line. I’m going to start keeping him more accountable by suggesting only light beer from here on out. I don’t want to tell him to jump entirely on the wagon because I like drinking with Alex. He makes me feel better about myself. More complete.

            The new tires I just put on my car give me a sense of completion as well. They look great and perform great, too. I feel a different sense of safety on the road now, especially in the poor weather. I’m just always losing my car keys at inopportune times. I wonder where they are right now. I’m sure they are fine. I don’t plan on going anywhere soon.

            Although a road trip does sound nice. I haven’t been on a road trip or taken a vacation in some time now. And that’s exactly what I need. A vacation. A vacation from my problems. I have plenty of them and they seem to keep growing. Maybe Alex is on to something. Or why Amy calling me a deadbeat really hit home. Maybe this is why I’ve spent so much time with Alex getting drunk. I really should hit the road for a long weekend to off gas and find my way back to neutral. Come to think of it, Alex’s dad really does rub me the wrong way the more I sit with it.

            And I am still not sure if I can trust the accountant that filed my taxes twelve years ago. I’m a W-2 guy, and he looked like someone who had his finger on the pulse. He had a nice polo on. Two buttons and breathable. Fitting his form nicely overall. He kept telling me how pleasant casual Friday was at work. I didn’t understand the relevance, but he seemed to think it was important to tell me more times than once. I should probably go buy some new polo shirts. I don’t own any. Just t-shirts, hoodies, gym shorts, and sweatpants.

            Since then, I just can’t seem to catch a break. Even my boss keeps riding me over some bullshit that I am rather indifferent to. He’s always telling me I’m not doing enough. Not putting the company first when I don’t respond to the 1am email. But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t see my efforts when I’m not working. He doesn’t see me out in the world fighting for my life. He reminds me of my father, and I think his perspective is rather short sided. Ill invite him to the bar next time to share with him my point of view of the entire situation. Which reminds me that I need to call Alex. I’m starting to not like my father, too.

            I hope I made the right choice by taking this job and moving into this new apartment. I’m in my mid-40s now, and time is slipping by. The hours are long, but I can do many things in these 750 square feet. My dog seems to like it too. But man, my boss really doesn’t like me. I should introduce him to Amy. Maybe even my psychiatrist or therapist at a minimum. Though I’m wondering if my therapist knows what they’re talking about. They throw around the word trauma like I don’t already know. Something about healing my inner child when I already told them multiple times I don’t have any kids. And the last time I had anything traumatic happen was when I broke my elbow falling down a flight of stairs last year. My elbow has healed since then, which I told them too.

            Anyway, I think I forgot to press pause on the show I was watching in the living room because I can still hear it playing. Sub Zero should also be informed that they are falsely advertising because every time I see the thermostat on the side of the door, it reads forty-two degrees. An email to customer service seems in order. I’ll get to that tomorrow. It feels like a lot of work, and I’m only renting the place for a short while. 

            Now that I’m back sitting on the couch in the living room, I need to figure out what I missed. I’ll rewind a few minutes – even if it means rewatching a little of something I have already seen.

            Damn…

            I just noticed I’m thirsty.

            Ah, the milk.

            That’s what I was looking for in the refrigerator.

            The fuckin’ milk.