Sunday Story
Matthew Ryan Fischer
It was Sunday morning. Someone somewhere was in church. There were
probably lots of people in churches or temples or mosques or similar such
places of worship. Frank didn’t know about that, but he figured a town like Albuquerque
would have plenty of good God-fearing types in houses of worship. It was Sunday
morning after all. That’s what good people did. Frank was not in church. Not
that he considered himself a bad guy, but he knew that maybe he was.
Frank looked at himself in the mirror, shirt unbuttoned and
hanging open, revealing his stained tank top from the night before. He hated
all the grey that returned his gaze. Grey on his chest. Grey on his cheeks.
There even seemed to be grey on his ears and in his eyebrows. He wished he had
a pair of tweezers. He would fix some of it. He was glad he didn’t have any
tweezers. He would probably end up without eyebrows if he wasn’t careful. He
hated his eyebrows. He didn’t know why people had them. Evolution should have
taken care of that by now. Women had it lucky. They could shave theirs and draw
in anything they wanted.
Out in the hotel room his friend Hank slept, snoring and grunting
like a man with a great sickness. Frank wondered how he ever got any sleep when
he was with Hank. Frank had not gotten any sleep at all the night before, but
that wasn’t because of Hank’s snoring.
Frank and Hank. What an unfortunate pairing of names, but they
were best friends. They both liked it when they were in their twenties and
wanted to flirt with women. There was something much less appealing and more pathetic
about it years later. Frank told himself to tell Hank that they were going to
start calling him Henry. Frank was pretty sure he’d forget to remember by the
time Hank was awake.
They had been driving all day the day before. Two aging men trying
to recapture some sort of youthful glory by hitting the road and driving cross-country.
Frank was pretty sure that must seem pretty sad and pathetic too. Young people
got to ignore society and it was considered romantic. A middle aged man doing
the same meant there was something wrong with them and they never properly grew
up. Frank was pretty sure that the imaginary people attending his imaginary
churches would agree. They would probably see him as some sort of condemned
heathen man-child. Frank didn’t stop to wonder why he was always assuming
others would be so quick to judge him.
Earlier that morning as he stumbled back towards his hotel, he had
found himself outside of a fast-food restaurant. It couldn’t have been even
6am. The sun was barely up. Frank wondered how the restaurant was open so
early. Maybe it was open twenty-four hours. Either way, Frank was able to
satisfy his late-night half-drunken craving for greasy food.
It was while he was eating his third sausage and egg sandwich that
his brain started to function properly again. That was when he noticed the
couple sitting at a booth on the opposite side of the room from him. They were
obviously still drunk from the night before. They kissed. Then made out. Then
the man reached one hand inside her shirt and the other disappeared beneath the
table. Frank wondered if they realized
he was in the room with them. Obviously they didn’t care.
This was when Frank first realized it was Sunday morning and
people would be going to church soon. Here he was in a grease pit watching two
people attempt to ignore all social niceties and decorum and someone somewhere
was getting up and getting ready to go to church. Other people were probably
confessing sins, not adding to the list. This didn’t stop Frank from watching
for a little too long. It was a very strange sight to see.
Frank had eventually wandered back to the hotel where Hank slept
and snored. Frank eventually gave up his bathroom reflections and woke his
friend up.
It was time to hit the
road. It was time for the adventure to continue.
“Where were you last night?” asked Hank.
“Around. Things at the bar turned out okay after you left.”
“I guess so. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I just got back about an hour ago.”
“Fuck. So you’re awake and ready to go.”
“Had my coffee and sausage and everything.”
“You think they’re still serving the continental breakfast?”
“In this dump? I don’t think they do that.”
“Fuck.”
“I’ll drive you somewhere on the way out of town. Come on. We want
to hit Vegas by night.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Hank slowly rolled out of bed and started to get dressed.
“What about her?”
Frank motioned towards Hank’s bed. Hank looked back, like he had
forgotten that she was even there.
“Who, her? Let her sleep. I don’t remember her name anyway.”
Frank and Hank packed their bags and made their way towards the
door. It was Sunday and somewhere good people were going about their business
doing good upstanding things. Frank tried to put that out of his mind. He had
hours ahead of him on the road to think about all the things he had done wrong.
He didn’t need to get started quite so soon.
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