GENE'S FINAL DAY

by Kevin Ellis

    It began with a bowl of oatmeal and a grapefruit half. I looked out the window and saw that the sky was beginning to brighten as if the sun was a flourescent bulb, warming up to full intensity. The morning smelled like coffee, or rather my wife smelled like coffee. She believes that bathing in the stuff awakens the body without having to dlink the caffeine.
    In the morning, I like to stretch, it's fun, try it sometime. We have the paper delivered every morning. They drop it in the hallway in front of our door. I used to wake up around three every morning and wait by the door until I heard the paper man come. As soon as he dropped our paper I would yank open the door and begin pelting him with Nestle chocolate chips. I grew tired of the game after he decided to call the police.
    I spent a terrible afternoon in jail for pelting the paper man. I sat in the cell and stared at the wall. It was yellow. I heard once that they paint the walls a certain color to keep the prisoners calm, but this particular shade of yellow was pissing me off. I found it extremely hard not to lash out at the walls or the bars or myself. I remember reasoning with the wall, trying my best to convince it that I didn't want to hurt it, just paint it red with someone's blood.
    The friendly officer who arrested me came down the hall and unlocked my cell. By this time I was bargaining with the toilet/sink to help me convince the wall to at least turn white. The officer said that my wife was here to bail me out, and he wanted to know if she drank a lot of coffee. I said no. The officer was short and slightly overweight and his blue uniform was wrinkled from too much sitting. He was carrying a keychain the size of a hula-hoop, or very nearly, and he had to carry it over one shoulder.
    I said that there must be a key to every door in town on that chain and he said you bet. What does you bet mean? Did they really have a key to every door or did he want me to bet him that they didn't? I chose not to bet. How can anyone win a bet with an officer of the law, they are always right.
    That was two or three months ago. There is a new man that delivers our paper now, the old one retired because the chocolate chip incidents were too much for him to bear. Every day I go out into the hall to get my paper and every day there is my neighbor, picking up her paper. Her name is Marlowe and she lives directly across from us. Every time I see her, she is in various stages of undress. Today she was wearing only high-cut panties and a Royals baseball cap. She was squatting to reach her paper.
    "Hi Gene," she said.
    "Beautiful," I said, "the day I mean, I mean the day is beautiful, isn't it?'
    "Yes," she said. 
    I turned and walked back into my apartment, closing the door behind me, and headed straight for the kitchen. I sat down at the table and removed the plastic wrapping then opened the paper. Murder, it said, continued on page two, rape, page six, robbery, page four. I turned to the comics. I began to wonder what Gasoline Alley was about and why it was never funny. I tossed the paper on the floor and began throwing chocolate chips out the window. My wife watched me from across the table, she said nothing and didn't move, somehow I knew she didn't approve. I pushed my chair back from the table and stood up.
    I walked into the living room and sat on the couch. I pressed the ON button of the remote control and the television flipped on. So did the stereo, and two lamps, and the VCR. I started throwing chocolate chips at the television. My wife watched me from the kitchen doorway and began to cry.
    Six months ago when my doctor told me I had six months to live, my wife took him literally and was sure that today was the day I was going to pass on. I couldn't believe it though, people can't get a terminal illness from eating too many chocolate chips, can they?
    I watched six hours of talk shows and soap operas before my wife asked me if this was how I was going to spend my final day. She was still standing in the kitchen doorway, watching me.
    "I'll spend it any damn way I please," I said. I asked her to fix me a sandwich. I wasn't hungry, I just wanted her to leave the doorway. She retreated into the kitchen and began making noises that gave me the impression that she was fixing a sandwich.
    I got up from the couch and walked out the front door. I stepped across the hallway and knocked. Marlowe answered and invited me in. "My wife thinks I'm going to die today," I said.
    "Are you?" she said.
    "No, you can't die from eating too many chocolate chips," I said, "can you?" She began to remove her clothing and told me to do the same. I asked her why.
    "You only live once," she said.
    I took off all of my clothing and asked her to stand by the window so that I could look at her in the sunlight. I reached into the pile of my clothing, brought out a handful of chocolate chips and started throwing them at her, then I started to cry.
    I spent the next three hours in her arms disturbed only by the ticking of the clock.
    I gathered up my clothing and left her apartment. I put my clothes on in the hallway and then entered my apartment.  A sandwich was on a tray in front of the couch, the television, stereo, lamps, and VCR were still on, and my wife was back at her post, the kitchen doorway. I sat down and looked at the sandwich. It was peanut butter and jelly. I opened the sandwich and smeared the peanut butter and jelly on the wall behind me. I looked at my wife and she was sobbing uncontrollably.
   I stood up from the couch, knocking over the tray and began clutching at the air. My legs were weak and trembling and I fell to my knees. I asked my wife to help me into the kitchen. She helped me up and into the kitchen and sat me down in a chair. I asked her for some water. She brought me a glass filled from the sink.
    I looked out the window and saw that the sky was a deep red as the setting sun disappeared below the horizon. It ended with a sip of the warm water.