Storm

                It was a dark and stormy night, actually a dark and stormy and relentless day, like God was pissing on me. I actually wake up and feel piss dripping on my face.

                “No,” I moan. “No. No. I hate everyone.”

                It turns out it wasn’t piss, but this little leak coming from a muddy brown hairline crack in my ceiling. The day went like flash flood warnings round the clock. Boss Kyle calls. “You don’t need to come in today, Richard. I’m not.”

                “Okay,” I say, mouth feeling dry. “Like, is that it?” Hours pass. I lie in bed and occasionally get up to take a piss or dump the bucket I’ve put underneath the leak or piss in the bucket with the leak when I feel too exhausted to go to the bathroom or to drink Nyquil or maybe it’s orange juice. I can’t remember. Even when the rain stops around noon, I still don’t have to come in to work, because Kyle calls again, says, “I’m still not coming into work. The traffic is just going to be horrendous, let’s face it, and I don’t want to sit in a jam just so I can get there and not get much done, y’know?”

                “Exactly,” says I, and I finally decide to get up, brush my hair, put on a shirt and pants and shoes, and head downstairs to check my mailbox, which is in a room off the side of the lobby. On my way I spot that totally emo guy, think his name’s Adam, gay for sure, and some redhead chick maybe called Serbia who I can’t decide is attractive or not, and who I think lives with like her seven-year-old boyfriend. Sex slave, whatever. I don’t care. I am the best looking person in this building.

                A huge parrot-type vermin bird swoops past my shoulder, and I duck down quick as it positions itself on a crappy ficus surrounded by mildewy cardboard boxes.

                “What the hell is that?” I demand to the guy at the main desk, who is staring dumbly out the two front doors. There is no answer.

                “Excuse me,” I bang my fist on the little hotel bell sitting before him. “Hello, birds give me total hives. Can you get rid of that nasty-ass bird, please, for the love of God?”

                The guy regards me quickly before turning back to the window, swallowing. I am aghast. I am the best looking person in this building.

                “Look,” I sneer, leaning close. “I don’t know what your problem is. Are you deaf? Mexican? Can you just tell me what a fucking bird is doing here, before, like, my total allergic reaction gets worse?”

                He points a fat, disgusting finger towards the window, and I look. “Oh boo hoo hoo, someone broke into the CVS. Answer my goddamn question.”

                Finally, his eyes stray towards me, still void of any and all emotion, and he speaks, but like just barely. “People moving. The birds got loose. They’ll move ‘em away.”

                “When?” I demand, running clawed fingers up and down my arm to exhibit hives for this retarded lowlife.

                He shrugs and turns back to the window. “Wonder what’s going on.”

                “Probably a lot,” I snarl, heading into the mail room, “if you live uptown.” I think about Jen and wonder if we’re broken up now. I guess maybe? I’ll call her to confirm, because I was thinking we could get lunch at the new expensive tapas restaurant on Boxwood. I think about Henry, the snob who I suppose is still my best friend, and about that joke of a person Felippe, and about Harris, who had a perennial scowl that looked totally ultra-hip on him, and super cool Oliver Peoples glasses that never made him look nerdy, and who threw whatever was in his hand when he got angry—porcelain mugs, paper clips, business cards, wads of cash, prescription bottles, files, filing cabinets. I always, in a way, looked up to Harris, who was unfazed by anything, who was just undoubtedly. I don’t know undoubtedly what he was, but whatever it was, it was undoubtedly certain. And now he’s certainly got Jen, along with Marie and their two children. I’m really glad I don’t have a wife and/or kids, but I miss Jen. I miss the way she was bitchy but it was still hot, before I lost my job, and I miss the way she made me feel special, like I was the hottest thing on the planet. I miss the sex. I miss making drinks for her with her totally amazing wet bar setup. I miss the smell of her apartment.

                I remember this one time Jen and I were at Luisa’s, which Jen thought was hip because the chef was a lesbian, and we were sharing some really expensive wine, I can’t even remember what now, and she looked so hot in this scarlet red D&G number, and I was wearing an asphalt gray pinstriped double-breasted suit but with a velvet vest underneath that matched her dress, and she leaned in close and looked at me in her Jen way and said, “Rich, you make me feel complete.”

                And like I winked and said, “I know, babe,” even though I didn’t know.

                Jen said, “Rich, you could be the only person left in the world—besides me—and I would just be happy about it.”

                I collect my two bills and my Prada catalogue and head out of the little mail room, inhaling totally deep to try and prevent this onslaught of stupid, gay tears and shaky breaths and shoving everything out of my way that I know is coming. The bird cocks its head at me. I spit violently on it and then run upstairs before it can attack. I actually kind of wonder who broke into the CVS, and why.