I Just Keep Losing
We can fix the stove, said the landlady.
OK Gre–
AT YOUR COST
How are you going to even say that
YOU told me that YOU broke it cleaning the–
That’s not what I said Maureen
Listen: to fix that stove I have to go in there, get the make and model number, call a repairman, wait for him, pay him for an estimate, wait for him to get the parts…
He didn’t care about the stove. He’d brought up the stove because she’d been in the apartment yelling at him about the mold and the closet sliding door mirror, which was cracked. It had been like that for two years since the last woman he cared about, who cared about him– two years– had got drunk and dived into it like a parakeet into a window. Maybe high on coke too. She’d stayed at his house to watch his cat while his father died back East. She’d invited a girl over to party with. Some Chinese YouTube ukulele player. He’d said OK because he wanted to sniff their Lesbian sex on his sheets after but they’d just got drunk and broken everything. The father died. The cat died. She left. The landlady wanted $300 for the mirror.
He thought if he asked her to fix the stove, which just broke on its own, it would be a wash. She’d back off. She was about 120 years old and demented. But she was like Mayweather. She could keep getting hit. Nothing connected. He would pay for the mirror and he would pay for the stove too and he would pay the $500 rent increase she imposed because it was true, there was nowhere for him to go. From the south Mexicans had consumed hundreds of miles and from the east New York people had swarmed in coating the block with boutiques. The Mexicali juice stand now sold fourteen dollar hot dogs and the sidewalks teemed with junior associates on Crossfit Indian runs. The rent went up and the taxes went up and the money sucking machine got closer to redline but didn’t ever seize up. Somewhere five Reptilians were building a space ark. They knew the secret date of the Yellowstone Caldera. It was the only explanation.
**
The day after he lost to the old woman he went to the gun shop. It was across from the office, next to the Flame Broiler Teriyaki Bowl. Fortunately he didn’t have to park. Even the handicapped space was taken. There’d been a school shooting. We expect the president’s remarks any minute, said NPR. For just a ten dollar monthly pledge you’ll have your very own collectible NPR mug. I’m Cassidy Brown Schwartzman.
You took a number like a deli. His was 70. He waited by a beef jerky display. At the counter three harried clerks explained they couldn’t sell the floor model of the Bushmaster AR-15, which hung dead center on the back wall. The gunman used one just like it. What was available was an AR-15 with an upper modified to fire .22LR instead of .556 rounds. Which even he knew was pointless.
They should fucking know this was going to happen, said the guy in front of him. He had red hair and a face like they’d pulled him out of a river. There’s gonna be a run on AR’s when you get an action like this. They ought to think ahead and order more. Hey man I’m Dusty, he said.
Good to meet you.
Hope you weren’t here for the Bushmaster.
I think a handgun, he said.
What kind
Something big.
That’s the spirit.
Maybe a revolver.
Well get a .357 and you can practice shooting .38 out of it, said Dusty. Much cheaper.
Cost’s not a concern, he said.
Well good for you man. But if shit goes down you’re gonna want more than six rounds. I’d get a sixteen round capacity.
I don’t need that much of a clip, he said. I just want it not to be complicated.
Magazine, said Dusty. A woman’s voice came over the loudspeaker. It said “23”. He decided to buy a rope.