A List of Things That Didn't Kill Me by Jason Schmidt Page A

Gerbil,” he said. “I’m very sorry that things didn’t work out. Better luck in your next life. Jason?”
    â€œSorry, Mr. Gerbil,” I said to the garden.
    â€œAll right,” Dad said. He left the shovel leaning against the house and led me inside to the kitchen table. After he sat me down he went to the refrigerator and poured some of Beth’s milk into a Mason jar. Then he went to the cupboard and stole one of her cookies. He set both things down in front of me, then went to his room and came back with his stash box. While I ate the cookie, he rolled himself a big fat joint and lit up. He took the first hit with a shaking hand and leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
    â€œSo,” I said after a few minutes. “I can keep Charlie, right?”
    He put his free hand over his eyes and made a noise, partway between a sob and a laugh.
    â€œYeah,” he said. “You can keep the fucking chicken.”
    â€œThank you,” I said.
    â€œYeah—fine. Okay. Could you be quiet for a little while, please?”
    â€œAll right,” I said. It was getting dark outside, and I knew Beth might be home soon. I finished the milk and cookie, rinsed out the Mason jar and wiped the crumbs off the table, so hopefully she wouldn’t notice we’d been into her food.
    *   *   *
    Dad still didn’t build a coop for Charlie, but he moved the rooster to the garage, where the sound of his crowing wasn’t quite as loud. I felt bad about it—I knew it was dark out there and that the garage was full of broken glass and other old junk that the bird could hurt himself on. I thought about what I might be able to do to get Charlie out of there. But nothing I could think of—short of getting my dad to build a coop, which had been impossible so far—would improve Charlie’s situation much.
    Then, a few months later, John solved the problem for me when he accidentally left a candle going in his room and halfway burned the house down. After that there was no question of staying on Hayes Street. We’d all have to move, including Charlie.

 
    9
    In a way, we were lucky about how John caught the house on fire. The fire happened in the middle of the day and Dad was the only one home. John was actually out of town. He’d left the day before, to take a shipment of kefir and whole-grain bread down to San Francisco. Which gives you an idea of how big that goddamn candle was. I was out playing with Mickey and Kurty, the straight kids down the street, and I didn’t realize anything was wrong until I saw the smoke and heard the fire trucks.
    â€œHey,” Mickey said, walking out to the street so she could look down the block. “I think your house is on fire.”
    â€œNo,” I said. “That can’t…” I walked out and stood next to her and looked at where the fire trucks were gathered.
    â€œWell fuck,” I said.
    â€œJason!” Mickey said.
    â€œSorry.”
    I walked down the block to my house and saw my dad carrying loads of our stuff out of the house one armful at a time: TV, stereo, record collection, and then various antiques. He stacked it all as neatly as he could, off on one side of the yard, while firefighters wearing dirty yellow bunker gear went in and out past him. They’d already blasted one of their giant hoses through John’s bedroom window. The attic was smoking fitfully, but the fire was mostly out. Dad was just trying to get as much of our stuff out as possible before the water started to make its way through the ceilings and into the lower part of the house.
    Right as I got there, one of the firefighters called out the window for everyone to get clear, then tossed John’s scorched mattress and box spring from the second floor onto the front lawn. I looked at the exposed metal springs and wondered if this was what had happened to the mattress Marianne had told me to be careful