First Light, Last Light (part 1)

I set my lawn gnome down in the grey and white gravel next to the row of decapitated pink flamingos that lined the walkway to my home. I had modified them to spray and sputter cranberry Kool-Aid out their necks whenever some curious sap pressed my doorbell. It always made for a fun and sticky Halloween. I had just finished repainting Alfred, the lawn gnome. His happy blue shirt was stained black; his skin was made two shades paler; his eyes, once dark and beady, had become a dismal, reflective abyss of metallic silver sheen. The only thing that remained untouched was his silly red cap, which now appeared to be more like a road-flare.
I fold my arms and stood back to observe the suburban walkway. A grin crept up upon each corner of my mouth. “Satisfaction,” I said quietly to myself. I walked inside, kicked off my shoes, and laid out on our ragged sofa. It had several rips in the upholstery, and stuffing was coming out everywhere like extra appendages. I inherited it from my parents. Its springs made me feel like their bodies were hidden just below the cushions; resting on that couch was the only time I could remember feeling so close to them. I stretched my arms out and yawned. My eyelids closed, slow.
“Frank! What the heck did you do to Sebastian?!” Horace yelled as he slammed the front door shut. I would have sworn if I were him, but Horace never swore. “I leave you here, all day, only to come home and find my stuff ruined.”
“Hey, his name is Alfred now. For goodness sakes, you have a lisp. Why would a man, such as you, name his lawn gnome Sebastian? It’s masochism, and it’s torturing me.”
Horace let out a hmmph and stamped off to his room. He slammed the door. Or, rather, he tried slamming the door. It was too flimsy to cut through the air. He gave it a good kick.
I stared at the ceiling until the white-spackle made my eyelids heavy. The ceiling-fan whirred. Each second ticked from the kitchen clock. I shifted my weight a little. The couch squealed and giggled. But slowly, as if my ears were being packed gently, unnoticeably with cotton, the sounds disappeared.

===

A shove wakes me. I look up to see Horace standing there with the telephone in hand, tapping his foot.
“It’s for you.”
I grab the phone, lean up on the sofa, curling my toes on the other end.
“Hello?”
“Hi, this is Rita from Sears Family Portrait Studios. Is this Frank?”
“It is.”
“Well Frank, we have your application here and were wondering if you could come in for interview tomorrow morning, say, 9:30?
I didn’t remember turning in an application.
“Oh? Umm, yes. I guess that would work.”
“Okaaay. We’ll see you at 9:30 then.”
“Alright, we will.”
I sat up on the couch and rubbed my eyes. My stomach grumbled a little as my face was lost in my hands.
“Who was that, Frank?” Horace shouted from the kitchen.
“Sears” I groaned.
He stuck his head out from the kitchen, then walked over to the couch. “And what did they want?” he asked and sat down too close to me.
“They want me to come interview for a job tomorrow morning.”
“Really?! This is splendid news! Now you’ll be able to pay your rent.” He said that last part and slapped my knee. I gave him grim look.
“Umm, we should celebrate,” he said.
“I guess. Why not?”
He eased off, sipping on a large glass of iced tea. I grabbed an old copy of National Geographic off of the coffee table. I had bought a whole stack of them for twenty-five cents last week at a garage sale. The pictures always brought a level of comfort to me, particularly those of sea-life. Smiling seals staring into the camera, eyes like vats of chocolate pudding. Coral reefs swaying in the ever-moving waters, fish-heads poking out from the shadows of their cover. Caribbean fishermen smoking corn cobs through the gaps in their teeth as deep meridians of white splash across the pier. Angelic calloused hands, making ends meet.
I have been unemployed for the past two months. At my last job I pasted advertisements on billboards. I made good money doing that, but the heights were awful. Plus Larry, my broad-shouldered boss, caught me with my newly finished work of art—a William-Shatner-stencil-meets-Prozac-Ad next to which I had free-handed “Get happy!” Fortunately I made it back to solid ground before he found me, but when he did find me, he gave me a good round in the gut, and I got to know the ground’s solidity a little better.
Later that week I got a gig selling wholesale door-to-door. The boss decided to take the day and come train me. He was your average salesman scum. We took my car out to some suburban sprawl 20 miles from the suburban sprawl we were in, and went knocking. He sat there, smoked and talked about how awesome Survivor is. Eleven hours, two Scooby-Doo Educational Fun Packs and four Tom & Jerry Spin-O-Rama Top Sets later I was the worst first-day salesman they’d had. I quit and never got paid.