leak onto the floor, adding to the musical chairs of clutter that I don’t bother to rearrange after the music stops. That said, the apartment looks different. Stuff’s been moved, and not necessarily by me. There’s a kitchen chair on the other side of the coffee table. I know the asleep me a little bit, and he wouldn’t do that. The placement of the chair is too neat, too purposeful. My apartment door isn’t locked or latched. Someone was here.
Maybe it was Gus, and he showed up this morning, following up on his nocturnal surveillance investment. Maybe the asleep me accepted his bon mots on a job well done, returned the amphetamines, and sent him on his merry way. If so, the asleep me is so thoughtful.
I do a cursory search of the apartment, including the leaning tower of dishes in the sink and the butter and egg drawers of my refrigerator. No sign of the greenies. No butter or eggs either. I’ll worry about it later.
My kitchen clock tells me it’s 12:39 p.m. The clock is a filthy liar. After a quick dry cereal and past-the-expiration milk repast and a gallon or two of coffee, I paint on a fresh change of clothes, shuffle down to my office, and crank up the computer. I want details on that fire. I’m not disappointed.
Lead stories in all the local papers and blogs. Bold, large-font headlines at both the Boston Globe and Boston Herald Web pages; both original stories already have links to updates: Two-family town house on the corner of H and Fifth burned almost to the ground. There was one fatality—the first-floor resident whom authorities would not identify yet—and one critically injured eight-year-old boy who lived on the second floor with his single mother, Jody O’Malley, age twenty-four. The apartment lease lists her boyfriend, Eddie Ryan, as a cosigner. Yeah, that Eddie Ryan. Fire Department officials suspect arson, and while no suspects have been announced, the press is clearly presenting Eddie as one.
Despite the late hour of the fire, Jody wasn’t home. She was drinking at a friend’s house down the street and had left her son alone. Jody O’Malley has been previously arrested a handful of times, and DSS has a file of abuse and neglect on Jody. Her son has now been removed from her custody. The updated links are about O’Malley, her documented violent relationship with Eddie, and years of oversights by the DSS concerning the well-being of her son, who had been removed from the home before, in 2006, but returned only six months later because the child’s grandmother was moving in to help out. The grandmother was never listed on the lease, and neighbors claimed she hadn’t lived in the apartment for over a year.
There are also stories about Fred Carroll, as well. He’s the former air force lieutenant turned baker, the Good Samaritan neighbor who went into the burning building, found the O’Malley boy at the bottom of the stairs, and pulled him to safety. The cops didn’t believe I could’ve found the boy first. My continued snubbing is not Fred’s fault, but I hate him anyway.
When I look up from my computer, four hours have disappeared. I’m not doing well today. I don’t know what to do or whom to blame. I get up and pace the room. I should never have taken the greenies. They hath forsaken me. But if I’m being honest with myself, which isn’t often enough, I know the greenies are another crutch, one too small even for Tiny Tim, and just another place to assign the blame because this day has really been no different from all the shitty ones that came before it. My time is always unstable and breaking down.
I have a message on my cell. It’s Ellen, reminding me that the group therapy session will meet earlier than usual tonight. She has the schedule printed up and magnet-stuck to her refrigerator. She says that Dr. Who reports perfect attendance. She says, Keep it up, but leaves out the or else . Love you, too, Mom.
I don’t call Ellen back. I call Gus’s cell twice. All I get
Maybe it was Gus, and he showed up this morning, following up on his nocturnal surveillance investment. Maybe the asleep me accepted his bon mots on a job well done, returned the amphetamines, and sent him on his merry way. If so, the asleep me is so thoughtful.
I do a cursory search of the apartment, including the leaning tower of dishes in the sink and the butter and egg drawers of my refrigerator. No sign of the greenies. No butter or eggs either. I’ll worry about it later.
My kitchen clock tells me it’s 12:39 p.m. The clock is a filthy liar. After a quick dry cereal and past-the-expiration milk repast and a gallon or two of coffee, I paint on a fresh change of clothes, shuffle down to my office, and crank up the computer. I want details on that fire. I’m not disappointed.
Lead stories in all the local papers and blogs. Bold, large-font headlines at both the Boston Globe and Boston Herald Web pages; both original stories already have links to updates: Two-family town house on the corner of H and Fifth burned almost to the ground. There was one fatality—the first-floor resident whom authorities would not identify yet—and one critically injured eight-year-old boy who lived on the second floor with his single mother, Jody O’Malley, age twenty-four. The apartment lease lists her boyfriend, Eddie Ryan, as a cosigner. Yeah, that Eddie Ryan. Fire Department officials suspect arson, and while no suspects have been announced, the press is clearly presenting Eddie as one.
Despite the late hour of the fire, Jody wasn’t home. She was drinking at a friend’s house down the street and had left her son alone. Jody O’Malley has been previously arrested a handful of times, and DSS has a file of abuse and neglect on Jody. Her son has now been removed from her custody. The updated links are about O’Malley, her documented violent relationship with Eddie, and years of oversights by the DSS concerning the well-being of her son, who had been removed from the home before, in 2006, but returned only six months later because the child’s grandmother was moving in to help out. The grandmother was never listed on the lease, and neighbors claimed she hadn’t lived in the apartment for over a year.
There are also stories about Fred Carroll, as well. He’s the former air force lieutenant turned baker, the Good Samaritan neighbor who went into the burning building, found the O’Malley boy at the bottom of the stairs, and pulled him to safety. The cops didn’t believe I could’ve found the boy first. My continued snubbing is not Fred’s fault, but I hate him anyway.
When I look up from my computer, four hours have disappeared. I’m not doing well today. I don’t know what to do or whom to blame. I get up and pace the room. I should never have taken the greenies. They hath forsaken me. But if I’m being honest with myself, which isn’t often enough, I know the greenies are another crutch, one too small even for Tiny Tim, and just another place to assign the blame because this day has really been no different from all the shitty ones that came before it. My time is always unstable and breaking down.
I have a message on my cell. It’s Ellen, reminding me that the group therapy session will meet earlier than usual tonight. She has the schedule printed up and magnet-stuck to her refrigerator. She says that Dr. Who reports perfect attendance. She says, Keep it up, but leaves out the or else . Love you, too, Mom.
I don’t call Ellen back. I call Gus’s cell twice. All I get
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