Accident

The whole experience left him out of sync, walking around the house, marking a trail in the carpet across the living room all the way up to the kitchen. When his muscles started aching, he would get up again and open the fridge, staring at the assortment of multicolored Tupperware but not looking inside any of it. He would hold his empty stare into the fridge for a few seconds, before deciding he wasn't hungry enough. He would do this a couple of times each day, eventually succumbing to some reheated chinese food or cold pizza.

The insurance agent called again that morning. Dem Franchise Boyz busted through the silence for almost a minute before the call went to voicemail. He stared at the phone as it rang. I gotta change that stupid ringtone, he thought. Better yet, I gotta get rid of that phone. The call didn't wake up Steven, though he nudged inside the sleeping bag where he was carving a place in the corner of the dining room. There was a message.

Hello, Francisco, it's Sharon from Progressive again, and I left a couple of messages last week and we really need to talk about the accident and I hope you are feeling well and I wish this bitch would stop talking to me like she knows me. He had a pervasive dislike people who were paid to be friendly to him. He took out that angst against as many telemarketers, sales representatives, and customer service agent as he could.

Inside, however, he wished he had friends. He longed for the times when he wouldn't systematically push people away. He wanted a better shrink, a new girlfriend, and some food from that fridge but was too lazy to sort through the Tupperware. He closed the fridge and grabbed a slice of cold pizza from the counter.

His neck didn't hurt much anymore, but the scar on his leg still looked vicious, according to Steven. Now 11-years-old, Steven was trying to be a cool kid and used words like vicious. Francisco had been a role model to him. Old enough to be an uncle, but never grownup enough to make anyone forget he was Steven's cousin. Now, the roles were beginning to change and Steven found himself babysitting what was left of his big cousin.

Pick up your fucking phone, he yelled as Dem Franchise Boyz interrupted the silent morning again. And change that fucking ringtone, for gods sakes.

Francisco got up and grabbed the phone. It was not Progressive, AT&T, or any refinance opportunity. It was Laurie. He put the phone back in the table, letting Dem Franchise Boyz finish the chorus. A thousand memories ran through his head. The sights, sounds, smells, laughs, fights, and, above all, the sex. The museums and concerts, and that time when she surprised him at school with balloons on his birthday.

Maybe I should go back to school, he thought, as if he had ever given it a real chance to begin with. I wonder what the hell she wants and if she misses me. Come on, baby, let's give it another try. There was another message.

Hey Francisco, it's me Laurie and I heard about your accident and I hope things are going well and I am moving out and do you want these clothes back that you left here long time ago and this must really be over if she called me by my first name.

I'm going out for a drive, he told Steven. Nothing big, he just wanted a Slurpee. This time he would stay in the road and avoid any mysterious head-on solo crashes against the freeway wall. He still didn't know what to do with his life. No more accidents, though.