Saturday:
The hammer falls, deliberate, controlled; I don’t know that I’ve ever seen so much blood. It reminds me of my mother’s old curtains. She’d put them up before I was born, and they didn’t come down till after she was dead. Right now, my mother’s curtains are pooling up around Robert’s body. I wonder if he’s still alive; maybe some faint brain activity pulsing through what little blood he has left. Can he feel the hammer’s rhythm, I wonder? Its beat? There’s so much blood. I wonder who’s responsible for this. Sometimes it can be hard to tell where the fault lies in situations like these.
“Listen to the beat,” I tell him “One, two, three, four…one, two, three, four”
Sunday:
Sometimes it’s good to sleep on Sundays.
Monday:
Alarm. Wake up, take pills, take shower, avoid mirror, get dressed. Where are my shoes? I can never think in the morning, too many questions. Where are my keys, my watch, socks? There’s blood on the floor…where are my shoes? I have to beat traffic. Sometimes I wonder if there’s a better way to get to work. The roads are always backed up. I can’t find my keys. Maybe I should take the bus as there’s a body in the trunk of my car. It’s probably going to start to stink. I decide to take the bus.
Standing at the bus stop, I stare at the roads. There is a lady with a scar on her face talking to me. She had her baby taken to jail yesterday, and now she’s going to go bail him out. She says she doesn’t know if what she’s doing is right, but she can’t let her baby sit in jail. She says she really doesn’t mind the cut on her face.
I tell her, “It’s not so bad. In the world we live in a problem like hers doesn’t cause God to take a moment’s notice. Everybody’s got problems,” I tell her. Then the bus comes.
At the office it’s the same as it was yesterday, clock ticks, memos, phone calls. Shari tells me I have a meeting with the boss. In his office, my boss tells me to sit down and starts talking. He always talks a lot. He tells me how I’m a very good worker. He tells me I’m an asset to the company. He tells me he’s very happy with me. He told me all these things last week.
Staring at the clock, I ask him how his wife is doing and he says a lot of things. He says fifteen years. He says four kids. He says divorce. He talks about wasted time.
I tell him, “It’s not so bad. When I was young, my mother would tell me I couldn’t do anything right. Now, I think nothing I ever do can be good enough for anyone.”
My boss stares at me for a moment, and I stare at him back. I shrug my shoulders and tell him, “I guess what I’m saying is it could be worse,” I walk out of my boss’s office. Back at my desk I watch the clock tick.
Sheri comes and talks to me in my cubicle. She tells me she’s been under a lot of stress with all of the new accounts they’ve given her. She says she’s been working nights and weekends; that she gets very little sleep. She tells me she breaks down crying at least four times a day now, and that she doesn’t know how much more she can take.
“It’s not so bad if you put it in perspective. Look at me,” I tell her “I fell in love with my best friend’s wife. We’ve slept together countless times. I love her and she loves me, but she won’t leave her husband. Most nights I lie awake sobbing, wondering if I should kill myself.” Sheri stares at me.
“I’m just saying things could be worse,” I say.
On the bus ride home looking at the people on the streets, I think of blood. A young man on the bus is crying. I ask him what’s wrong.
He says that he doesn’t know how to be happy; that his life is a wreck. He has no friends, and most people he knows don’t like him. He thinks he’s broken somehow. He wonders if there’s any point in living.
“It’s not your fault,” I say “It’s those other people that are broken. Sometimes all it takes to fix something is a few good solid whacks with a hammer.” He stares at me like he doesn’t know what I’m saying.
“Think about it,” I tell him.
The police are waiting for me outside when I get home. They’re asking about Robert; his wife, Jen, doesn’t know where he is. The last time he left the house he said he was coming here. She wants to know why I haven’t returned any of her calls, “I’ve been sick,” I tell them, “I told Robert not to stop by.” I tell them I haven’t seen Robert since work on Thursday. They ask if I might have any idea where he might be. I tell them I don’t know, that I wish I could tell them more but I’ve been sick. The cops leave. I almost vomit at the smell when I open my garage door. I start my car.
Driving through town, there’s a man on the radio saying the world is going to end, and that Russia is going to attack Israel igniting a third world war. He says that soon people will come to know death better than they know themselves. He says that Jesus is coming, he says the world is ending, he says hallelujah, glory be to God.
I change the station. There’s a news story about a guy who tried to crucify himself. He made his cross, put a nail through his feet, and then through one hand. He never considered that it’s impossible to crucify yourself, that you’re always going to need help with that last nail.
I stop the car in front of Jen and Robert’s house. There’s a bloody hammer in my glove box. I knock on the front door, and when Jen answers I sink this hammer deep into her skull. Then I do it again, and again. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen so much blood.
I think of my mother’s old curtains. I wonder if Jen’s still alive. I wonder if she thinks life is unfair. I wonder who’s responsible for this. Sometimes it can be hard to tell in situations like these.
