Under The Rug

[Trever J Bennett]

Under the Rug
Trever J Bennett

I'm doing the goddamn dishes again.

There's a huge pile up on both sides of the sink, leaving me at a loss of a start point. Anxiety builds as I start to move bowls and glasses.

There's a story dried onto the face of each plate.

There's crusted onions and dried blood from steak, from when our girlfriends were over.

There's bean mush and chip fragments from the week of nachos we ate. I showed them how to make them this way.

There's a glass Pyrex casserole with pieces of tilapia and a melted plastic lid. He put it in the oven wrong. It was just left there in frustration.

There's food all over the counters. Coffee grounds. Stains from spilled drinks.

There's countless liquor bottles on top of the fridge.

And I have to clean it all.

When we got here it was different. We had a system. A community. Communication. Trust. Family. We used that last word a lot. Family.

Yesterday I was talking to a friend, Tyler, who's got this car lot, and is just making a ton of f*cking money. And it needs more salesmen. People who speak well. Tyler told me he's got a job for me. Back home.

But here I am, in the apartment alone again on a Friday night. Cleaning dishes. Nobody called me. Nobody texted me. And this is my life now:

I wake up, and I sit in bed for hours until I have fifteen minutes to get dressed, get my books and catch a bus. I show up late, sometimes high, and sit and idly listen. I watch the clock, grab my things, and stand for too long in cold December weather waiting for the bus. The forty-five minute ride back through capitol city traffic numbs my head. By the time I'm home, I'm alone, until it's late in the day, when everybody already has their plans made. Without me.


So now I'm scrubbing these goddamn dishes. And in he walks, my roommate. And he goes into the living room. And he sits on my couch. And he turns on my TV. And he doesn't say a word to me.

There's no jokes like before. There's no smiles or stories. In two months it's all dissolved, like a failed relationship. Like an ex who won't leave. Like an ex I'm financially bound to.

Money. Cars. In the last two months, my friend, the salesman, has raked in enough money to open a lot. There were two cars in the beginning. One to drive and one to tune up. Now Tyler has twenty. And most of them are going to be gone by the end of the week. And here I am, watching my student loan get pissed away on rent and food and marijuana.


I've gotten all of the glasses loaded into the dishwasher now and I'm starting on the silverware. A lot of it is soaking in cold soapy water from when my roommate "did the dishes," which amounted to turning on the faucet, squirting in some soap, and smoking a bowl.


I'm making a lot of noise deliberately, trying to make a point. I hear bubbling as a response. And I smell ganja. But I just keep on making noise, and I wait for him to offer me a hit. I used to be able to count on that any time, but now it only happened when he and I were alone, which lately has been infrequent.


"You want to hit this dude?" I hear from the living room. I put the forks in my hand into the dishwasher basket and close it slowly. I haven't responded and I'm taking my time. I want him to know I'm upset. I slowly walk out into the living room with a blank face. He takes another hit.
"Yeah thanks dude." I mumble it. My mood is obvious and he mirrors it. But he hands me the bong.

"Crazy night," he says. There's still a little smoke that comes out of his mouth.

"Yeah? Where'd you go?" I'm not going to let him think I'm too interested.

"House party," he says. His eyes are red. "Frank was there." He snorts a laugh.

Last time we saw Frank was on his way out of our place, half a bottle of Smirnoff heavier and stumbling like a toddler in a bounce castle. He had vomited out the car window on his way home. This didn't end in a hospital visit or an M.I.P., and evidently he was out on the town again.
"I think he invented a new dialect tonight," my roommate said. Some reason his wit didn't hit me like it usually does, but I accept his effort and fake an appropriate chuckle, which he matches.

I press my lips to the bong, spark and pull the slide, letting the yellow-white cloud burn my lungs. I hold it in and exhale slowly. Warmth spreads through me, and I cough.

I decide to try and bait him.

"Frank, f*ckin' kid," I say through light coughs. I pass the bong and change the subject deliberately. "Busy day?"

"Yeah," he says quickly, "I got to work an extra hour. I think I really raked in tips."

He likes that I haven't found a job yet. This isn't new; but when he knows I've got him cornered, he reminds me how hard his job is, and how rewarding it is to be employed.

He made forty-five dollars this week. I wonder how much Tyler made?

"Awesome." My mouth is dry. "Want to play some XBox or something to celebrate?"

"Um." He holds this note for several seconds, staring at his phone. A car alarm goes off in the lot four stories down. " No, man. I've got homework to do." He always had homework to do. Why didn't I ever have homework to do? "I just wanted to unwind, before..."

"Oh okay." And we sat there and passed the bong a few more times in near silence. It's 2AM now. He looks at his phone a lot.

"Well I guess I'll get back to the kitchen then."

"Thanks dude." He walks back into his room as I get up. He left the TV on a blank station. Blue light fills the living room.

Why am I so mad?

I am definitely mad at him. Something is making me feel like I should be. I felt like some soldier on a humvee in Iraq or something. Driving along the road on a sunny day. But just wondering when a bomb is going to get me. Like everything's fine but something's going to blow, everyone knows it, it's a matter of time.

But what? I clean all the damn time. I cook him food. I'm always ready for a laugh, I'm always ready to make things good. But there's this distance that I can't explain, I can't combat, and I can't deal with.

So now I'm standing in the kitchen going through my contact list. I'm looking for my salesman.
"Tyler," I say when the rings turn to a click. I hear the rustling of sheets.

"Dude what time is it?"

"I'm moving home."

* * *

"You're sure," she says to me.

"Yes, I'm sure."

"I just want you to make the decision that's best for you." her eyes looked past me. Her face was deliberate. "It sounds like a good thing for you, it really does." She paces these words out slowly. "I just want you to look at it with objectivity."

"I've been thinking about this constantly. Trust me I've gone over every option. It just, you know how I am here." I try my best tender face and it works well. "This place lost its shine."

More specifically, this place lost appliances. Over the last couple days he moved all of his things out of the kitchen and living room. His table, too. So the living room is bare. Just a couch and a TV. And a book shelf. Blacklights. We don't even bother heating the room anymore.

"Look, I get it, I just want you to make the best decision," she says. I know what she's doing but I refuse to address it. Play dumb. Play dumb. Good boy.

"It's already done," I say. This is true. I've already rented a storage unit. "Besides, what's here for me?"

She looks at me blankly and I know I said something wrong. I kiss her. "You know I wouldn't go if it weren't best." She turns away. Same sh*t.

I kiss her cheek. Then her forehead, the whole works. All the children's book spots. It's the Eskimo kisses. That gets me a smile from her. Okay good. I'll deal with it later.

And now I'm up making coffee, which I don't mind doing for her. I throw on a bathrobe, and she hurries me in her fun little way. In that baby voice. I pop the lock open as I turn the knob to my door.

A slight movement of air hits me, like the coolness of adjacent rooms after a hot shower. It's several degrees cooler in the hallway to the kitchen then my room. I kick through a couple pieces of paper that have been left on the floor on my way to the sink. There's sticky notes with nasty messages on the ground. A few beer bottles. Dishes are starting to pile up again.

I haven't seen him in days. I've heard him, and I've seen his mess grow and mix with mine as the rooms grew colder. But this time I knew it wasn't all him. I'd taken advantage of the neglect, I'd decided not to clean up after anyone anymore, not after the fight.

The sink is full past the Brita filter. I try to push through plates to make room, but they're so tightly packed in and fragile I can't make them budge. I move my wine glass, half-filled with sour milk and Lucky Charms, he left in the sink over to the counter. I take out two frying pans, still caked in bacon grease. I cram the plates down, just enough to get the lip of the pot under the faucet. I let in only enough water for me and her, which is all I can get at the angle I'm at anyway, and noticing the light under his door, I guard the brewing coffee like it's a baby.
I can hear them talking. They're trying to be quiet. The coffee pot gurgles.

I'm walking two steaming cups back to my room now, roll-stepping like marching band, and setting one of them down on a makeshift table at the foot of my bed, made from a storage tub and a high-density particle board. She's all a beam, and I walk back to the door and close it. I push the lock loudly. Within seconds I hear his door open and his footsteps slump out.
I'm standing at the door, listening. Cupboards close. The fridge opens. The microwave opens, closes. The coffee pot gurgles. I sip quietly, so he doesn't know I'm listening. I know the flow of sound he makes. I could tell you what he's making, but who really cares about what he's eating? I don't, so I walk away.

She's been thumbing through a Cosmo or Redbook or Seventeen; I don't know what one she reads, but it's got someone important in the fashion industry on the cover. Or Music or something, I can't see the cover. She doesn't even say anything about my obvious eavesdropping. She looks up and reaches for her coffee and I hand it to her so she doesn't fall off the bed. And she smiles at me all cute and I smile a real one and she just goes back to reading her something or other.

Then his footsteps stop at my door for an uncomfortably long time. She and I look at the door, hoping to hear the click of his doorknob. Instead, I hear a weak mumbling that might be my name, and I don't respond. She gives me a stale glance. He knocks.

I roll out of bed slowly to keep my coffee from spilling and walk to the door. One more weak knock before I turn the knob that pops the lock open.

He's standing in the doorway making a face that he's practiced.

"I packed a bowl. I took a hit but if you want some it's on the table. Good morning." he says.

He's holding two coffees. I open his door for him.

"Thanks, buddy," I say, mostly because I'm not sure what else to say, and he smiles obligatorily.

"I'm going to get ready for school so uh..."

"Yeah go ahead. Thanks again."

He closes his door softly with his heel. More whispers. I go back into my room and I must look conflicted because she says, "Well that was... something." And I nod.

Yeah it was something. I excuse myself briefly from her to grab the pipe from the living room. It was a step maybe, some sort of lean in a direction of our reconciliation, to her at least. But I know not to hold my breath.

I want another fight. I want to say what I wanted to last week, when called Tyler. That I'm stuck. That I was promised a friendship. That this wasn't the future I'd imagined. That I felt that the more I gave the less I got.

I want to hear what he wanted to say to me. How I don't fit in with his friends. How I drive everyone away, how stern I am to the people he likes.

He said he felt like he lost a brother to his friends. He said he was ashamed to them. But what did I get? I got a half a bowl of weed and a good morning. I got the grace of his presence. I got the privilege of his forgiveness.

But where's my apology? When does he break down and admit that he was wrong to say those truths about me? How everyone is gone because of me. How the rooms are cold because of me. He had the ability to say such pretty things behind my back but here he goes just shoving me aside. Making himself look good to everyone else, and sweeping me under the rug. Give me a present. Shut me up. Play dumb. Good boy.

So, yeah, we're lighting up the herb and, yeah, we're smoking it, me and her. But for this last week I'm here I don't want to see his face or hear his voice. And I don't need her to remind me how much of a mirror it is to mine, because I already know.

* * *

In October we had a big couch, two folding chairs, several green plastic patio chairs, two sturdy tables and a couple miscellaneous objects. With this many people, anything about yea high was officially a chair.

So there was just all these people sitting around this table, all on at least their third Keystone. Frank was drinking straight vodka out of a wine glass. There were two bowls going around in opposite directions. Tubs of salsa and chips and dips. People were yelling, indie music was playing in the background. Six brands of energy drinks on the particle board that was a now a table. It was one of those kinds of parties. One of our parties.

"Goal!" I called to him as he walked out from his room with his girlfriend tailing him, faces sweaty. He laughed, and I waved a pack of cigarettes.

He nodded and walked with me to the back of the room.

The sliding glass door closed stiffly behind us. Voices inside sounded like a faint hum past the thermal panes. Lights hummed around us, illuminating a round parking lot.

It was cool out. A breeze wiggled loose an orange leaf from the maple tree that hung over the balcony enough to be in arm's reach. The leaf fell four stories and landed silently, before being picked back up by the wind and disappearing under a car. We leaned on the cold aluminum railing. I handed him a cigarette and we sparked with our own lighters.

Long drag.

"Do you ever feel big?" he asked me.

"What do you mean?" The wind blew a big gust. We watched the tree rattle and sway.

"Do you ever feel important? Like, smarter than you should be? Smarter than your friends?"

Well, yes, I thought. I thought I was smarter than a lot of people. But I played dumb.

Long drag.

"Like, when you're talking to most people, do you just feel you're bigger? Like there's nothing in their heads. You're a smart guy, dude, you've had to have seen it."

"Do I feel smarter than most people?" I repeat his question, turning toward him a bit. "Well yeah, I guess."

Long drag.

"You can see it in their eyes." He looked at me hard at these words. I blew smoke slowly. He was right, I did see it. I saw it in everybody's eyes. Her eyes. But not his.

His eyes were more demanding.

"I think you're projecting," I said after a moment. I let the smoke pour out of his mouth before I read his response. He looked past me a little, and he broke into a forced half-smile. He lost his rigor and his eyes turned back toward the tree.

I rested my wrist back on the railing and looked out at the parking lot that wrapped around our complex. A car alarm went off. We flicked ash at the same time.