Wednesday, August 29, 2007
caretaker
This was the eighth can. The mister would be asleep soon. Every night, it was the same, nearly. The mister would arrive, curse at his day left behind him, and retreat to the bathroom for a time of noise and stink. He would emerge with a grunt, and fall into his chair. Perseus would have his first beer waiting for him, then when ordered, put the mister's food into the humming box and make it hot for him. He despised the humming box; it always stung him when he pulled out the food. But it was what he was trained to do.
The mister would grunt and yell at the box of light for the rest of his time at night. Every so often he'd command for another beer. Sometimes he would throw the empty at Perseus, and make him cry out. But mostly the mister was kind enough. Perseus was fed well and sometimes got a scratch behind the neck or under his chin.
His curses would quiet to a mumble, and the mister would soon pass out. He would often sleep with the lit stick in his hand, dangerously burning down to his fingers. Perseus knew to take away the beer then, and take the lit stick and put it down the sink. It was one of the first things he was trained to do. He was not supposed to eat the mister's food, or drink his drink. But sometimes, once the mister was out, he would breath in the rest of the lit stick.
It was a moment to himself, after he silenced the box of light and pulled the blanket over the mister.
Perseus would sit in the darkness, draw from the lit stick deeply, and think of his family.
