Then, he hurt his back at work. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He was fifty- seven years old. The doc gave him percodan and some muscle relaxers that kicked his ass. He didn’t like the pain killers, especially when he had a couple of bourbons at the end of the day. Made him too goofy. But taking one of the muscle relaxers at bedtime was the ticket. Put him right out.
The only problem was, he’d come half ass awake and really have to pee. He’d stumble into the can and spray like an old tom cat. Most of the time, he’d try to clean it up but every once in a while, he’d leave some splashed down the toilet front or a little puddle on the floor. The old lady would get up to go and if he was lucky, she wouldn’t turn the light on, just leave the door open, squat and tinkle.
One night however, she stepped in Clint’s pee. She started screaming like a fucking banshee.
“Clint, you bastard, get in here and clean up your urine!”
Pissed him off, it did.
He stormed into the bathroom, grabbed her by the hair and slammed her face into the toilet. Again and again, until he was spent. A strange calm came over him. He went back to bed and slept like a newborn.
In the morning, the need to go woke him. He went into the head, saw her lying there and let loose.
He took the bottles of pills into the kitchen where he washed them all down with stiff belts of Seagram’s 7.
Then, he crawled back into bed.
Bill Baber’s fiction and poetry have appeared in “The Source,” “Literary Harvest,” “The Flash Fiction Offensive” and the online edition of “The High Desert Journal.”His stories have also appeared on “Powder Burn Flash” and “Darkest before the Dawn.” A book featuring his poetry will be published by Berberis Press this spring. He lives in Bend, Or. with his wife Robin and a very spoiled dog.