Originally published in the Gorko Gazette.
Le Penseur
Stan sat before the old television set, unmoving. He was just dimly aware that his torso and limbs were arranged in the same posture as Rodin’s “The Thinker,” only in flesh tones instead of the bronze of the sculpture. While Le Penseur had for more than a century captivated observers with its monumental reflection of profound introspection, Stan knew only that he was stoned on peach-flavored vodka and ersatz Nyquil. Like the statue, Stan was totally nude.
It had been a long night. Leaving his sleeping wife alone in the middle of the night to grab a beer and catch some professional wrestling on the tube, he had gotten wildly drunk and stayed that way into the morning. He worked hard as a bricklayer and only cut loose one night a week. He didn’t frequent the bars anymore, and usually held himself together enough to accompany Bree to church on Sunday morning.
He gazed bleakly at the TV, saw on the fuzzy screen only the pointless Sunday morning discussion programs. Stan moved his right elbow from his left knee and bent to retrieve his flask of generic vodka. He then snatched from the TV table the large, trapezoid-shaped bottle of generic cold meds. Decanting the green, gloppy liquid into a small plastic cup, he tossed it back like a shot of tequila. Next he unscrewed the vodka and took a bracing hit. The hair on his arms stood on end.
“I’m ready,” he said aloud, “for a Sunday without football.”
Keys rattled in the locket and through the front door walked Bree. She dropped her purse and a grocery bag on the parson’s table beside the entrance. She stared at her husband and offered up, “Shit-faced again, lover?”
“Is that what you learned at Sunday school today?” asked Stan, promptly falling off the sofa and bonking his head on the edge of the TV.
As he lay there, dazed, Bree sashayed through the living room, took up a vase, removed the fresh-cut flowers and poured the water on her husband’s head. Stan sprang to life at once.
Stan shook himself like a dog. “What’s for lunch?” he slurred.
“Hash. Don’t get up; I’ll serve you where you are.”
“Thanks, ‘hon.”
Bree brings him something ugly in a bowl.”
“Hey Bree, that’s the dog’s food dish.”
“Of course it is, I gave you dog food.”
“Bree, I can only take so much. You know I can leave you at any time.”
“Promises, promises. The checkout guy at the grocery lets me know, every time I shop, that he’s available. Good hair, nice teeth and a body that looks like a Greek statue. You really want to make threats?”
“You think you are so hot! Want to know what the secretaries for the union say about me?”
“Sure, I could use a good laugh.”
“They say I have great penmanship.”
They blink at the other for a moment, and then Bree hides her mouth with her hand and starts to giggle. Stan joins her. Soon they are laughing uproariously.
“Hey Bree, help your drunk old man up so we can watch something on TV.”
“OK, but after that I’ve got to put away groceries.”
Later they leave the TV on but ignore it while making out like a couple of teenagers. The ice cream melts in the bag on the table.
