BB Grey–musings

“There’s so much crazy in the world,” Susan trailed off, cigarette barely held in place by thin lips too wrinkled to know otherwise. She shook the newspaper as if some truth would fall out — or maybe a couple of extra bucks toward next month’s rent.

Al grunted and shifted in his ribbed tank, love handles pressing against the plastic patio chair that doubled as the dining room formal set.

“I’m talking to you!”

“Yeah, yeah — in a handbasket.” Al’s dukes came up out of habit, a reminder of when he’d once climbed into the ring and fighters climbed out. He looked the kind of crazy Susan was probably talking about. But Al had crazy, and could take a punch. That was the difference. The world today was just crazy and couldn’t take one — so it folded, or sissied out. No fight left. Nothing worth fighting for.

“Are you listening to me?” Susan worked her combination, ready for a jab.

“Sure, honey.” Resolved. Defeated.

Boom. The unprotected chin.

“What did I say?”

Al’s attention went all boxer — he knew what was coming.

“I love you?” His sheepish grin, two teeth missing on the uppers, the two front lowers still hanging in there while his tongue worked the background, the movement throwing the unexpected off.

Susan stopped. Saving the knockout for another day.

“I said, the world is crazy.”

“That’s what I said.” Al surprised himself with what he thought might have sounded clever.

“Someone just tried to kill the president again.”

“When?” A little more interested now.

“At a dinner thing last night.”

“Did they get the bastard?” Al feeling like he was contributing.

“Yeah — tackled him like a rag doll. Some looney from La-la land, go figure.” She straightened the paper.

The internet was hit and miss in their tiny apartment —a one bedroom, sans the bed and the room. Al slept on the sofa, sprawled from whatever position he’d last drifted into, and Susan stretched her bony frame on an armchair with an ottoman slightly shorter than a cot and about as comfortable. The room held everything else: hampers, shoes, Al’s uniform from the parking garage — cashier on the exit, the one who showed you how to insert your ticket and grumbled when you hadn’t paid in advance. “Ya know how to read?” A sign hung crooked like Al’s teeth: Please validate your ticket and pay at a Kiosk before exiting. Al always liked saying that word. Kiosk. It sounded smart and Polish at the same time. The rest of the room belonged to Susan’s wigs, day dresses, houserobes, and an oversized cat named Jeronimo, his bed and litter box in close proximity — so much for lying in the bed you make.

La-la land. That’s what they called anyone from the west coast — foreigners.

“Any videos?” Al always in the mood for a good car crash, slow down traffic and then complain about people who do just that.

Susan checked her phone. Marge was getting back to her about bingo night — grand prize doubled to fifty dollars on account of the holiday week.

“Nah,” said Susan. “Nothing good.”

“Hmm.”

“You’d better get ready. You’ll have to take the bus — no steps today.”

“I’ll walk in place in the booth,” Al said. “Four thousand times.” He smiled, walking in place, the soldier.

She folded the paper, dropped two pieces of bread in the toaster, lit the gas. The skillet warmed, oil shimmered, eggs sizzled. Al suited up for the world.

Susan suited up for Al to meet it.

Not every fairytale lives in La-la land.