c. 2024 Rod Ice
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(1-24)
Nardi Psenka had a natural inclination to worry. This tilt toward fretting over details was one that made him aloof and disconnected from the social continuum at Evergreen Estates. For brief periods, he was able to escape this habit, one learned from his doting mother. But as circumstances prevailed, he would descend into the obsessive abyss, once more. His critical approach to everyday events, in truth, did little to affect their outcome. Nothing changed by twisting his belly into knots. Yet it was something he could not unlearn easily.
“What about my furnace? It broke in December, and I had it fixed. But how long will that last? It started once, even twice, but how many times will that cycle repeat before an igniter fails again? Or the blower fan, or the roof jack that brings in cold air, and vents exhaust? What about the supply line? Is there enough propane in the tank? What if the power goes out, like last winter? What if I can’t find any candles or my butane lighter? What if I am stuck in this trailer with no food or water? Worst of all, what if I am caught short, without any beer?”
The middle-aged retiree had endured being alone for about 14 years. As a new resident of the community, many years before, he was more outgoing and successful with interpersonal relationships. His wife and daughters had attracted many friends into their circle. Yet with the collapse of his marriage and family structure, this veneer of civility was stripped away. He became withdrawn and gloomy, a condition that had plagued his childhood. Escaping the inner paranoia at his core was no longer possible. He fell hard from an emotional cliff, into a canyon of tortured self-analysis and criticism. Ghosts in his head were boisterous and persistent.
“Never good enough! Never, never, never! That’s the story of your miserable life! Only having a chemical swill in your bloodstream makes you content! What a pity! You’ve failed even with so much promise. So much hope to be better! So many chances given by people who thought you deserved to be happy. All of that is gone now! You have nothing left but a sad image in the mirror, and judgment from your own reflection. Look at that face! Look into those drooping eyes! This is the handiwork of consequences. This is fate! Gaze upon what you have become, and inherit the negative value of your own lack of worth! You sir – are nothing!”
He felt haunted. As if Vincent Price were narrating his damned adventure, with theatrical poise. In tones that added to the overall aura of desolation carried by his existence.
Nardi got very drunk on Sunday evening. He had watched ESPN for hours, clinging to sports scores and clips of athletic prowess as a diversion. With each alcoholic beverage, he became more liberated. More distant from the trembling, withered fool he saw in the looking glass. He nearly inhaled a bag of waffle pretzels while drinking. Then, he reached for his cellular device, and started to scroll through posts on a social media platform.
There amid familiar cat memes and generic political rants, was a blast of feminine allure that he did not expect. One of his neighbors, a young woman who lived on the back half of their rural property, had put up photos taken at a modeling studio. She wore a yellow outfit that lovingly caressed her curves, and accented the charm of her long, toned legs. Her dark hair framed a friendly face, with deep eyes and a perky nose. She boasted about being signed to a developmental contract by an agency. One that would allow her to explore the business of being voyeuristically poked and prodded and preened, for public consumption.
The reclusive loner felt his heartbeat quicken. She was someone he barely knew. Though they might have met once, at a meeting of the park’s neighborhood association. A failed group that had been designed to bring residents together for the purpose of promoting mutual interests. Gently, he held the phone while reaching for his reading glasses. Then, went through all of her pictorial albums. Each section on the virtual profile yielded more of the same. She had posed in dozens of different garments, with heels and nylons and jewelry that accentuated her undeniable appeal. His favorite from the bunch was one taken in a Hooters restaurant. She was clad in the white top, orange trunks, and shiny tights most often used by waitresses who worked for this national chain. On a plate, delicately balanced in her right hand, was an order of Buffalo wings. That pleasant sight made him hungry. Instead of sexual conquest, his thoughts veered sideways, to whetting his appetite.
He loved spicy chicken wings. They were a perfect compliment to mugs of cold brew.
Being quite inebriated, he clicked on a messenger link and decided to make direct contact. Though shy and humble, this sort of plan seemed perfect to defeat the cackling voices in his head. They grew louder as he typed out a brief greeting of sorts. One rendered through a fog of hops and grains and self-deprecation.
“Jennica, I saw your pics this evening, while trying to stay warm through this long interlude of winter confinement. I must say that they really caught my attention. You’ve got style, girl! I’m not usually one to comment on sites like this, but I think we spoke at our township library, over the summer. Weren’t you wearing a spandex tracksuit, bright orange in color, and pink running shoes? Your hair had been pulled back in a ponytail. It was shimmering and glossy and bouncy. I thought it matched your personality. You’ve got so much energy! Anyway, I just wanted to give your post a ‘like.’ Thanks for breaking the boredom here, I needed that diversion. If you’re on my street, stop over for some refreshment. I’m usually out on my porch when the sun shines...”
After finishing his geeky solicitation, the hermit huddled in his easy chair, with a recorded fireplace playing on YouTube. He opened a new 12-pack of Miller High Life, and wallowed in numb glory. Somehow, he had overcome the weight of his own inadequacy to find a moment of respite. Not having to ponder his reflection in the mirror made him feel free.
Nardi was very tipsy by the time a reply popped up in his message app. He strained to read it clearly while continuing to satisfy his thirst.
“Hey Hot Dog! I remember you, that was a fun gig up at the bookery! Y’all were very polite, a real gentleman. I don’t get a lot of that in the trailer park. Guys usually want to grab my tits! I never had anyone describe me with all those big words. That’s a hoot, man! I figure it’s because you’re an older dude. Shoot, y’all must be my dad’s age, I think! That’s a different generation from the rockheads we got now. But I appreciate being treated like a lady! Damn straight I’ll stop by for a beer some time! Count on it, buster!”
By the time he finished reading, his pulse had begun to pound like a jackhammer. He poured a bottle of suds over his head, just to feel this cold wash of liquid ease the fever that resulted. His skin tingled, all over. And his sweatpants tightened with anticipation.
Then, the beasts of worry returned. He doubled over in the cozy chair, and held his stomach.
“What about this hovel? I haven’t cleaned up in months, maybe years. There are boxes everywhere, from Amazon and Walmart, and eBay. I keep everything, just like my parents. It’s a bad tendency, hard to kick! What if she doesn’t like all the clutter? And what if she wants to date a man with a big-tired truck or a four-wheeler, instead of a ratty Jeep? What if she hates seeing gray hair and thick glasses and a slouching profile? What if she likes sushi and wine? What if she wants to lie on the beach and giggle over suitors with lots of cash in the bank? What if this is all just a trick to get a rise out of me? What if I sent a text to the wrong person? What if she’s really 300 pounds and flabby, and used her sister’s glamour shots to get attention on Facebook?”
Nardi had driven himself insane with doubt. He tossed his brew at the wall, and watched as its remnants trickled downward in slow motion, until foam reached the carpet.
It was time to go to bed.
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