Bathtime for Bo

 

Old Furnace With No Fire

“You won’t even wind up on the missing posters,” Dead-Eyed Memphis told him, matter-of- factly. “Nobody cares about you Bo.”

The wind was scraping the top of the warehouse. Bo wished he could feel it on his face. He wished there was soft earth under his rough fingers, and leaf shadows on his skin. He wished he could hear the birds singing, or a woman singing, or a child. He wished he had a child, now. Someone to miss him. Perhaps, that was a selfish thought. Maybe, it was better if there was no one to miss him. He could die in peace, his sins dissolving with him - his burden burned into his own shoulders and no one else’s.

“Mem, yew take so many liaves and you forget that yers is just as expendable. ‘Is me now. I was the undertaka, and now ‘is my life bein taken. Just know, Memmy, ‘is yew next. Yew’ll grow old, start gettin’ sloppy, and have to pay like I em for yer mistakes,” Bo said. He was feeling preachy. Might be a pre-mortem thing.

“Well,” Memphis chuckled, not caring. “At least I’m being useful now.”

He hauled Bo up over his wide shoulders. Bo groaned with his weight being forced down on his gut. Bo was a lean old man, with gray whiskers and deep, hollow eyes. His messy hair was up in a bun. He had more scars than anybody could count, and Bo himself only remembered a few of them. It was rare for the ‘scuffews’ to stick in his liquorated mind. His tied hands hung back straight with his hairy arms. His thick chrome watch was now on Memphis’ wrist, as well as his thin titanium chain. No point wasting good jewelry.

Memmy Boy was the youngest-biggest guy Bo had ever known. He must’ve felt to him no heavier than a sack of flour. Memphis was wearing his gym clothes today. It was supposed to be his day off, but Bo had heard Boss tell him that he’d have to skip it, and must’ve whispered some odd amount in his ear. Bo had heard it all, fixing the furnace under the den. He listened while fighting off cobwebs and centipedes to replace the old, black filter. He listened while he ran the hose through the PVC drain and pulled the dead rats out of the coil. He kept listening when he replaced the fluid of the third burner, screwed the doors back on, flicked the switch, and heard the blaze and hum of an old beast back in action. It was a long and tiring conversation, with a lot of details. It was obvious somebody had to go, but he never knew the ‘him’ was him. He’d always thought he was useful enough, but a new furnace makes fewer mistakes.

“Memmy, yew ‘memba when yew introduced me to Jemma?” Bo asked. Mem had reached the top of the stairs, where the door to the silos sat, ominous and tan. He opened it to a rage of wind. Now Bo missed the quiet inside. The wind on his face was cold and biting. He’d be warm soon enough.

“Mistake,” he said, knowing what confession Bo had in mind. He wasn’t going to let Bo get anything off his chest except his skin. “Jemma said you were a piece of dog shit an’ I shoulda listened.”

“Mem!” he shouted. “Memmy, wait! ‘Is me, Bobo! Yew can’t even look et me bufore yew kill me? Not once in the eyes? Look et me, Mem!”

Memphis stopped his haul and stared. He stood up on the scaffolding bridge, with Bo slouched against the railing. Squatted staunch beside them was the fattest, rustiest member of the oil silos, the lip of it a few feet from Bo’s feet. The dull segments ducked down into the darkness.

While Memphis unlatched the lid, Bo was looking around wildly. He started to flounder against the railing, propping himself up. He was screaming and seething.

“Took you a bit longer to snap.”

St. Patrick’s Day

Jemma watched the waiter’s mouth move at them, but she couldn’t hear anything, no matter how closely she watched. Her Bula sat across from her in the cushy booth, ordering for them both. It didn’t suit him, the warm sun from the window, the cup of wildflowers, the stained glass ceiling lamps, and the Chindi rugs. His seamless smile pinched his thick cheeks. His dark hair was combed back under his flat brim. She couldn’t see his hooded eyes under his square shades. There was a new watch around his wrist. It was the most gorgeous watch she had ever seen. It was encrusted with diamonds in the round chrome plate. There was a second hand spinning inside it, not ticking, but gliding. All of them spun at their own pace, but the second hand soared so beautifully across the velvety face.

“Jem,” he said, taking her cold fingers in his palm.

“Bula,” she said, her bright eyes tracing over his features in concern. He was wearing his gray leather jacket. He had the collar snapped together, just below his Adam’s apple. The silver ring on the right hand holding her hand burned into her skin. She didn’t understand the flashy ring any more than she understood his thick dry hands. There was so much volume to this man.

He towered over her even then, sitting in the booth. His black boots were twice the length of her green flats. “What’s the occasion? Are you doing well at the Honor’s Society Program?”

“Yeah, a student of ours graduated early yesterday. It’s good to see the kids stayin’ sharp. He was a real dag, though. A bit sad to see ‘em gone.”

“That’s good... I like the watch.” He spun his wrist around. “Ace, isn’t it? Paid a ‘igh price for this one.”
“Is that what you were out getting last night?”
“Yes, love.”

“In your lounge clothes?” she wondered. He laughed like he did when he was thinking his way out of something.

“They know me there, babe. I’ve got enough moolah without the suit.”

“Alright, Bula,” she conceded. Her doubts would never resolve themselves. There was a long cut right across his pale face. She could see the small red tip peaking out the bottom of his glasses when he looked up to the waiter. It hadn’t been there while they were sitting on the sofa last afternoon.

‘Bula’ meant to him, ‘honey.’ It was closer to ‘teenage boy.’ She spoke some Wagiman that she learned from her late parents. It seemed to be a dying language, so it was vital to hold on to every last word she knew. It was her aunt and her older sister who had raised her. Her aunt, unlike her and her sister, was half-Irish. All that meant was that Aunty Medika made corn chowder for her and sis Jedda. It was better than anything she’d ever tasted when she’d moved with Bula to Melbourne. Jedda had called him Bula bulbulp-ba, a hairy teenage boy.

As the waiter came back with his meat pie and her ‘roo and port stew, she noticed his dark apron and bright face. He was so young and so eager. He wanted a big tip from the big man with the bling.

“Thank you,” she said. Her seat cover was coming loose from the corner. The leather was scratched to shit underneath.