SUNDAY MORNING
Jim Esch
The sunlight exploded as if someone had slashed the clouds with a giant machete, letting the sun burst out onto the ashpalt. It was a raw light that made every object appear brighter than it really was. The reflection off the chrome wipers blinded Frank for a moment, so that he almost missed the turn into the mini market lot. He gazed across the street, where Sunday dressed people filed out of a red brick Methodist church. Frank considered them. What made people want to get up with the sun, dress in their best, sit on hard benches, only to be put back to sleep by a boring preacher? Especially when you could be sleeping in a soft bed with wrinkled sheets?
Frank kicked the door open, crawled from his olive Duster, squinted, and confronted the splendour of the day. His fingers dug into his flaky scalp as he turned to glance at the highway. Mustangs, he mused; how the design of Mustangs had changed over the years. He yanked some change from his fringed pocket, struggling to withdraw his fingers from the tight jeans. Although they were a comfortable pair of old jeans, the crotch creases became painful after a night’s sleep in them. He looked at his reflection in the glass windows and found it a crummy sight, but what the hell; he was comfortable that way.
He picked up a thick Sunday paper and thought about buying a butterscotch krimpet. From the counter he saw a creamy Chrysler New Yorker pull in beside his Duster. The giant door slowly swung open, and a short old man rocked himself out of the plush seat. Puffing slightly, he circled and opened the door for his wife. His ruddy face looked pressured, as if his tie was knotted too tightly or his belt cinched in a vain struggle to restrain his bulging belly. He was clean though, starched looking in his seersucker suit and shiny white loafers, every hair on his balding head wetted and combed into place. His wife clopped into the minimarket on treacherous black pumps, racing for the freezer section and some Heavenly Hash ice cream. The man stolled into the store, his head up, neck stiff, obviously convinced that he should somehow be in charge here. The very model of the mature male. Yet, his manner was teetering, almost uneasy as he entered the plastic realm of the minimarket/station, where you had to pump your own gas, pour your own coffee, wipe your own windshield, mix with the good and the bad.
Frank watched them carefully. “Probably comin’ from church,” he thought. “They think they’re so damn holy. Probably think the rest of us are heathens.” Momentarily he felt embarassed by his appearance. The old couple left the store, ignoring him. Suddenly impatient, Frank grabbed his paper and krimpet, slapped the money down and rushed from the store. He revved the Duster and drove home. He passed the church, the lonely trees trapped in the highway’s medial strip, the aluminum poles and the chain link fences.
“This isn’t so bad,” he thought. Not bad to get up late when the sun is high. Just roll out of bed, pull on a sweatshirt, take a piss, then run up to the store for a paper. Not bad at all. Once home, he’d call Marrianne and maybe she’d come over. Maybe they’d watch the Eagles game together. It was a nice day to spend watching TV.
Was church maybe like a spiritual fix? He thought of the church steeple as a giant, communal needle. All you had to do was go once a week, survive your shot for an hour, and then it was over. Maybe going to church was like insurance. Like it guranteed you a place in heaven, like a restaurant reservation. Maybe the more you went to church the better your chances of getting a good deal. Like a gaming table. Shrugging off these thoughts, he turned on the car radio and drummed on the wheel with the music.
Frank pulled into Evergreen Court, grabbed the paper and krimpet cake, and entered his apartment. He looked around. Yesterday’s paper lay in a scattered trail across the floor. The shag carpet smelled vaguely of dog’s breath, but he didn’t have a dog. The orange carpet didn’t exactly coordinate decoratively with the puke-green sofa on which he often slept. Fragments of peanut shells were littered on the coffee table. Piled stinky dishes were overflowing from the kitchen. He was puzzled by the presence of his shaving cream and razor next to the kitchen sink. Then he noticed some clothes on the floor that were not his or Marianne’s. He wondered about this momentarily, then turned away.
He lay on the couch after flicking on the television, trying to decide whether to watch the Eagles pregame show or an Abbott and Costello movie. He probed the bag of cheese puffs left over from last night and munched reflectively. He’d call Marrianne soon, eat his krimpet, and if she came over they could clean the apartment. He threw an afghan onto the floor and chomped on some more puffs. Something smelled like sweaty feet.
His thoughts turned back to Sunday mornings. He felt a need to be satisfied in some way. He wasn’t sure that he’d make it into heaven at this rate. Rolling over, he thought about Marrianne. Her pretty face, how she looked in her prewashed denims. He thought again about the Eagles’ chances and about Mustangs. The sun slit through the window and the heat made him doze.
...oh god from whom all blessings flow and jesus and holiest of holiest spiritual donuts fill me and fix me and let her be home today so she can come and clean and don’t let her be mad at me let me make this church at home please don’t mind if i don’t look good or fancy or clean should i shower and shave or be hot and sweaty...would like grape soda and bacon if she comes over...so it isn’t clean but the cat came over last night i gave him milk when he comes to the door...let Bertha be sick at work tomorrow please so we can take longer coffee breaks...oh holy on most high from above lifted so i can feel you here and now in the something...and tell me what she’s thinking right now if she comes and then i’ll know when i can move in with her but then...the coyote always loses to road runner, why?...but if he wins there won’t be no story no more but let me win this time and please save me from what this is if...that smell in the kitchen whatever it is stays...then eagles today let them win and make me whole most goddest of all and from the i’ll do good too and maybe not again...well maybe that’s ok too once in a while like it hasn’t hurt so far except sometimes i smell and the neighbors broke that window when you know Chris and his bloody hand on the rug left a stain, the prick but it’s ok...please clean my car but the apartment first i think if she comes over we’ll clean first then you know let me know what she’s thinking and it doesn’t matter and cheese puffs and grape soda, could go for them now and maybe i can move and then on our own, go hit the bars more and bigger parties and more concerts like maybe the Dead and the Stones hope they come soon please let them come soon I want to see the Dead come soon yes thank you lord thank you my dead thank you, blessed are the thank yous bless my dirty sould, amen....
He opened his eyes and squinted at the powerful sunlight seen through the blinds. Something good had certainly happened to him. He was warm and felt full. He turned on the Abbott and Costello movie and ate the remaining cheese puffs. He wondered whether Marrianne would come over and clean. He had faith that she would. He wiggled his toes and skimmed through the paper.
Terrified, Lou began to wheeze and cried for Abbott. Frank laughed. He leaned back and mused about his chances for salvation. And they was good.
