Page 78 - WTP VOl. VIII #6

Words (continued from preceding page)
He was about to sit down on his couch when he no- ticed how ugly that was too, deep brown and plaid. And his floor as well. Beige carpeting, clean but old and plain. His living room walls were bare. There were no pictures or books in any bookcases or decorative curtains on his windows. Just the basics. The brown couch, a 36-inch television on a stand, a wooden coffee table in front of the couch. He won- dered why it never occurred to him to do something about the decor, even though he was the only one ever there.
But now was different. It was like the whole room was echoing, moving in and out of his vision with ugliness. He needed to go to the window and look at something not plain and austere. But his window had a view of the parking lot and there was just his old truck in the driveway. His neighbors weren’t home
"He watched the men gyrate
around the ring, their muscles taut, their chests shiny with perspiration."
yet. His truck was amidst the tar, by itself.
He sat down on his couch and opened his beer. White foam barely fizzed on the top. He must have opened it too slowly, or it could have been just old. Near retire- ment age, but not quite yet.
He took a sip and pressed the TV remote. The local news program came into view. A woman anchor was speaking. He couldn’t hear what she was saying so he reached for the remote again, and turned up the volume.
“A tragic scene in Portland today,” she began. “Police have confirmed that thirty-three-year old Joshua Booker shot himself in the head in his car. Booker worked at the Cumberland County District Attorney’s office.”
It was like she was speaking another language, one that he had learned long ago and only vaguely re- membered. It seemed so foreign, so surreal.
“Police say that around lunchtime, Booker drove his 71
car from the parking garage near the Cumberland County Courthouse to a secluded part of Deering Park and shot himself,” she continued.
Seymour got up from the couch and went to the win- dow again. He didn’t need a picture to know it was the young man he had spoken to on the street a few hours before. The lamppost that illuminated his parking lot had come on even though the sun was far from being over for the day. It shown down harsh and bright, an unnecessary beacon on the twelve empty parking spots delineated by solid white lines. The TV voice continued.
“Sources say that Booker was troubled over the im- pending loss of his job due to budget cuts and the recent breakup of his marriage. He lived in Portland and had no children. Witnesses say that Booker got into an altercation with a man on the street before his death. Police have not yet identified the man, but are looking to question him.”
The walls seemed to rush towards him. Would the police find out that he was the one who had spoken to Joshua Booker? Would investigators interrogate businesses in the area with Seymour’s picture in hand? Would his former boss greet officers and
say, “Oh yeah, that’s Seymour. Belligerent, aggres- sive and weird. A real jerk.” Would Seymour be arrested? Charged with aiding a suicide? Would his ex-colleagues cross their arms and smirk in satisfac- tion, with an, “I knew one day this would happen. He couldn’t get away with being an asshole forever”?
Seymour moved his chair over to the window and sat down. Shrill sirens flecked the distance. He covered his ears and shut his eyes. Had the cops tracked him down? Would they knock on his door? Ring the door- bell? Could he pretend he wasn’t home? And if he opened the door, what would he say? Please believe me, I didn’t mean it? I’m sorry?
He could ask them details about the young man. How long he had worked at the District Attorney’s office, whether there were cousins or parents or siblings who would miss him, the name of his ex-wife, what hobbies he liked, what kind of gun he had used. Or
he could just deny that anything had transpired between them except for a, “Hello,” and a, “Nice day, isn’t it?” but no one would believe him. And those two women on the street heard him. They would come forward and recount everything.
He put his hands down. Footsteps sounded. A key in the lock, voices, and then a slamming door. The neighbors across the hall were home. The police