The Writing Machine

Stories by Christian Cloud Abraham

Longing for Late September

A bead of perspiration rolled down his nose, detached itself, fell onto a mower blade locked in the jaws of a vice on a workbench. The slight shriek of a file slid by spreading the saline solution along the blade, then stopped. A gardening glove set the file down on the bench. The glove lifted off a straw hat and a green sleeve tucked into another glove wiped away dew from old white hair. The glove pushed the hat on the forehead and back to its resting place on the old white hair running down onto old skinny shoulders covered in a white T-shirt holding up old faded-blue saggy overalls. There was a sound of breathing, strained and raspy. The glove reached to a workbench cluttered with empty brown beer bottles and pulled from the middle a bottle sweating with condensation. The bottle lifted to a face beaded with sweat and found a place where lips were hidden in wiry white facial hair. The bottle was drained of several large gulps and he took in the coldness letting his eyes droop and his head nod for a moment. Then he returned the bottle to the collection on the table, loosened the vice, fastened the blade to its place in the underbelly of a riding mower, lowered the mower and prepped it with gas and oil. He retrieved the bottle and pushed the shed doors outward. July sun fell upon him in the doorway and he stood still, wincing.
“I am but a thirsty flower neglected in dry soil,” he said, returned the bottle to his lips and guzzled franticly, letting bubbling streams flow into his beard.
“Oh such blinding light. Oh such strange melancholy in the hands of the sun. I used to rejoice, but now I cower. Cold and cloudy September’s end… when will you come and blot out this menace above me?”
Eyes closed, he swayed and let out a deep sigh, then returned to the shed.
Placing the empty bottle with the others on the worktable, he trod out across the back yard to the house. He paused inside the rear entryway leading down to the gray basement or up to a glowing yellow kitchen.
“Hannah? Hannah!” When no one answered he started into the kitchen in an authoritative voice, “I’m getting another beer and I don’t want to hear anything about it!”
The house was silent as he opened the refrigerator with an angry huff. Bottles clanged and one settled on the counter with a clunk. Steady hands peeled back the cap with an opener. Leaning on the counter he closed his eyes and guzzled several tugs. When his eyes opened, they were not quite as alert as they were a few moments earlier. He leaned against the counter looking at the patterns in the tile floor.
“Yes I’m guzzling beer in the kitchen,” he answered the empty house. “I know—I know it’s hot out,” he continued.
He guzzled some more. His eyes watered from the beer at first, then he winced long and hard and they watered from something else and his head lowered.
“Be it weak or strong, a grievous heart hath no chambers to contain sorrow which sorrow can not break. Let that which cannot be contained with shackles be drunk and contained with its own grief. My melancholy is thirsty. I quote myself.”
He started to drink then changed his mind and took the bottle from his lips and held it up as in proposing a toast, “What do I want for Christmas Hannah? I want to put your love in a bottle so I can drink and be drunk on your love.” Lifting the bottle he toasted the empty kitchen, “To be drunk on your love.” The bottle made it to his lips but stopped again and he looked annoyed at the living room door. “Yes, you’re right, now I’m just drunk.” The bottle died shortly thereafter in a frenzy of grumbling.
There was a clanging of glass on glass, a slamming of a refrigerator door, a bottle top winced, pressure hissed, an opener came to rest on the counter with a clunk, the rear screen door slammed and the roaring of the riding mover invaded the house through open windows and drifting curtains. Hands pointed to 4:52 on the black-and-white clock above the kitchen door leading to the back yard. The clock ticked as the second hand moved and clacked at each new minute when the big hand jumped forward a notch with some effort. The hands advanced around the dial and when they were positioned at 5:35, the roaring of the mower stopped, the screen door slammed, the refrigerator door opened, bottles clanged, a bottle top winced, pressure hissed, the opener came to rest on the counter with a clunk followed by a loud nasal breathing conjoined with deep sounds of drinking and a gasp of satisfaction. Then just the sounds of breathing and the clock ticking. He leaned against the counter looking at the patterns in the tile floor some more.
Beads of perspiration rolled down his face, detached themselves, and spread into dark blue blots on the saggy old faded-blue overalls.
The bottle clunked on the counter. The gardening glove lifted the straw hat and the green sleeve tucked into the other glove wiped the old wet white hair. The glove pushed the hat on the forehead and back to its resting place on the old white hair running down onto the old skinny shoulders covered in a soggy transparent T-shirt holding up the old faded-blue saggy overalls. There was a sound of breathing, strained and raspy. The bottle lifted to the face and found a place where lips were hidden in wiry white facial hair. The bottle was drained of several large gulps and he took in the coldness letting his eyes droop and his head nod.
“Lo, what pestilence—to want and to have not.”
He let go a deep sigh, and then… he let go.

END
© 2007 Christian Cloud Abraham

Posted on April 1, 2007 in
Emotion: Tender, Type: Fiction