I'd been working in this place for a long time. A place with hard floors, shock resistant boots, hearing protection and repetition. Alcoholism, loud marriages, marijuana, football, methamphetamine, a new truck, oxies was how most of the others seemed to kill the remaining time. For some it was church and family occasions- always some kind of celebration, something to dress up for, a million cousins. For others it was an ankle bracelet, a room, and white knuckles.
I don't know what Anthony did with his time off the floor.
I do know that he didn't use many words, and when he did use them, they were always arranged in the same way, spoken in the same manner, like a recording. Sometimes I'd mouth the words as he said them.
I know that much about him. I also know that he farted. Anthony farted all the time. He lived in a perpetual mildly noxious cloud. And the smell was always exactly the same - never a shock to the system, never a "whaaat the fuck is that?" Anthony was consistent. He definitely was that.
This morning I was distracted by a head full of the kinds of thoughts I don't know what to do with when I happened to walk into his cloud. The smell was bland, vaguely like potato chips, insulting.
Nowhere. Nothing. This. FOREVER.
I stabbed him twice with the screwdriver right where I'd imagined his kidneys would be. He leapt in the air, yelled something, then fell to the floor.
He moved around down there in a spontaneous way, like he wasn't too sure what he was supposed to do next. I was walking quickly and I was feeling that way too.
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