Tasker/Morris

There was a saying his grandmother had been fond of:

“Life may be ankle full of shit, but the people who sweep it up get paid double.”

She was always spouting things like that. He wasn’t sure if she invented them, but the woman was known for her seemingly endless arsenal of witticisms that were so tailored and sage like they often left the receiver cowed.

            Perhaps it was born from her Depression Era childhood and the need to be sharp in order to survive. Or maybe she had just seen too many family members do idiotic things to keep quiet. Either way, when he felt particularly in need of wisdom, he would hope to hear one of her pronouncements in his head.

           

            He felt that way now: lost and thirsty for those axioms, as he stood packed into the subway car with the other 9-to-5’ers on their way home from work. He yearned for the Great Veil to momentarily part, and her stern yet loving visage to appear and impart her two cents.

            The past year had been by far the worst in all 31.

            Severe alcoholism had sent him to the hospital straight after the New Year, his Pancreas pickled and about to give up.

            Then, within six months of each other, both his Grandparents had died. It was a stunning blow to lose them both in such a short span of time. He had never known his maternal grandparents, and so the white haired, eternally smiling pair of oldsters had been his pillars since birth. He had always expected them to be there, a misconception echoed by his missed chances to say goodbye to both as they lay dying in hospitals. He was too sick with drunkenness to be presentable, and assured himself that “this was just a scare, this isn’t the end.”

But it was.

            Three months after his Grandmother’s funeral, his husband, his rock, the love of his life, died suddenly of heart failure at twenty-nine years of age.

            This time he managed to pull himself out from the bottle of Scotch for long enough to sit by his lover’s bed, holding his hand and shedding tears tinged with dread and despair. But no matter the strength of his desire for a return to health, it could not counteract fragile heart and lungs. When his husband passed away surrounded by family and friends, he had shattered like glass. Tiny pieces scattered and became glittering dust. There was no hope of repairing the original.

            His rage at the cruel Universe and broken heart sent him further down the spiral; his addiction became entirely unmanageable again and fearing for his own life, he checked himself into Rehab.

            Everything had seemed to find a semblance of sense there. Surrounded by the drug addicts and alcoholics each equally as damaged as he, they found absolution together and embraced a second chance at life. As with all things, however, it could not be infinite. He returned home to no job or income, a severe lack of friends, and an embarrassing hole of a month’s time to find a way to explain.

            His brilliant scheme of returning life to normalcy was losing its momentum, and a looming shadow erupted into the background of his mind like an evil black spire built overnight by tireless slaves.

            Luckily, a small café finally gave him a chance. He worked hard, took shifts and did jobs his former self would have balked at. Money was coming back into his pocket, pittance by pittance. Despite his cellphone being shut off and other mod coms going by the wayside, he was still able to keep a roof over his head, his electricity turned on, and his two cats fed.

            The shadow did not disappear, though. He could still feel its presence over his shoulder; constantly just out of sight and biding its time until he found his way back into its deadly grip.

            Less and less people would talk to him; either fearful of reminding him of the “good old days,” or else still too caught up themselves in their own lives and troubles to reach out.

More bills stacked up that he could not pay. More events came and went that he could not attend due to lack of funds or the presence of his old frenemy: Alcohol.

And now he suffered an indignity that his former self would never have thought possible: here he was on a packed subway, on his way to an empty house, on a birthday that would not be celebrated. It took all of his willpower to refrain from jumping in front of said underground train and just ending the whole miserable affair.

Instead, he shut his eyes and rocked along with the other commuters, letting his Nan’s old adage about shit sweepers wash over him like a proclamation from God.

“I really hope you were right about that one, Nana,” he thought. “Because I’m starting to get used to the smell.”