Soukup - Bliss

Contents

Bliss

Fredrick Soukup

Regal House Publishing

Copyright 2019 Fredrick Soukup. All rights reserved.

Published by

Regal House Publishing, LLC

Raleigh, NC 27612

All rights reserved

ISBN -13 (paperback): 9781947548992

ISBN -13 (epub): 9781646030262

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019941542

All efforts were made to determine the copyright holders and obtain their permissions in any circumstance where copyrighted material was used. The publisher apologizes if any errors were made during this process, or if any omissions occurred. If noted, please contact the publisher and all efforts will be made to incorporate permissions in future editions.

Interior and cover design by Lafayette & Greene

lafayetteandgreene.com

Cover images by Oleg Podzorov/Shutterstock

Regal House Publishing, LLC

https://regalhousepublishing.com

The following is a work of fiction created by the author. All names, individuals, characters, places, items, brands, events, etc. were either the product of the author or were used fictitiously. Any name, place, event, person, brand, or item, current or past, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Regal House Publishing.

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

To Mom and Dad

Part One

F ive grand in savings intended for his first semester at the University of Minnesota Medical School affords Connor first and last months rent, two months of job searching, and several cases of beer. Sleepless summer in South Chicago. Teens fight in the streets. At night police sirens whine like starving infants. In the afternoon he perches on the landing of the staircase zigzagging down the side of his apartment complex, watching the bus stop below exchange the citys elderly and hobbled and stoned, its airport workers and gas station clerks and toddlers clutching their mothers hands for balance. Craterous potholes dictate the monotonous swerves of traffic. On the other side of the street, shattered windows honeycomb the burnt-orange brick building identical to his; on the moonlit sidewalk, glass like shards of gold glints, which curfew-less schoolkids gleefully chuck at streetlights.

He sleeps late, watches movies on his computer, orders-in Chinese and deep dish. He gets drunk night after night and gains belly chub. Thankful whenever the unreliable internet connection abbreviates his job hunt, he closes his laptop and naps, somehow exhausted. His father, Bill, calls him once a day, every day. Occasionally, Connor answers.

You short on money?

Ill have a job soon.

Where?

Im going to bed.

Its only seven.

I have to work on an application first.

Finance is a good career, Connor. We could get you licensed, you know. You could work with me, or at another office if you dont want to see me too much. At least till you figure something else out.

Thanks. Ill think about it.

Or, you could lie to me and say youre taking night classes, or blogging, or training to be a cage fighter. Something.

Im trying out for a reality TV show.

Thats more like it. Say, I could get you set up at a branch there. Even part-time, you could make some money.

I should go. Love you.

Love you, too. Give me your address, Connor.

A check might not make it to me, anyway.

Still could try. How long will you be gone?

I dont know.

Connors neighbor, Lee, eats Connors food, drinks Connors beer, and pawns Connors clothes for junk money. Connor misses him when hes gone. One evening Lee says hes leaving town to see his sister in Charlotte.

Thought you said she lived in Durham?

Whats the difference to you ?

The beer bottles in his backpack clink together as Lee rushes out of the apartment.

At four in the morning, he knocks on Connors door. Connor opens it to find him sweating and shivering under a yellowing bedsheet, the corner of which hes balled up and stuffed in his mouth to staunch the bleeding from a lost front tooth. Lee meanders in, sits cross-legged on the splintered kitchen linoleum.

The fuck happened?

Dont know, Lee mumbles into the cloth clot. You got any beer?

You dont know what happened to your tooth?

And I dont miss it, either.

Connor pours a glass of water, asks to look inside Lees mouth.

Lee opens wide.

Could get infected, Connor says.

You a doctor?

No. Pre-med, though.

Fuck that.

You should go to the hospital.

Ill sleep it off. Just got carried away.

Lets go, Connor says, holding out his hand. Ill call an Uber.

No ones getting us.

Well walk, then.

I got an immune system like a dumpster, fuck you mean.

Did you overdose?

Youll know it when you see it.

I dont want to see that.

Get high with me, you wont notice a thing, Lee quips.

Right.

Stop stressing out. Everythings cool.

Lee stands, stick-thin and hunched, the black mustache above his lip crusted darkly with blood. Hes thirty-six, though the fleshy bags under his eyes belong to a man twenty years older. He tightens the sheet around his shoulders and smirks at Connor, who hands him the glass of water. He drinks it in two gulps.

I got a wife. Got two boys across town and a good gig working construction when they take me back. Even got a degree in astronomics, fuck you mean. Bring me some beers over, would you, he says, as he shuffles out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

At the library, two bus transfers away, Connor reads magazines and newspapers and blogposts, eyeing vagrants who exploit the lax bathroom policy by washing up with wet, soapy paper towels and, as winter approaches, by shooting up in the stalls. They call him Fruity, because, instead of money, he gives them apples and oranges. They tell him about their murdered brothers and imprisoned aunts, about their wealthy cousins who moved away and dont call anymore. They tell him Lees wife left him when one of their boys drowned in an inflatable backyard swimming pool many summers ago.

He switches to vodka mixed into half full lemonade containers, whiskey into pop bottles, and drinks while he walks the city, thinking about how much money he has left, how hed fare in a fight with the tougher strangers he passes, about writing poetry and learning to play an instrument. About farming a plot of land, his future wife and children. About why religion has prevailed so long on this planet, why music is beautiful, why ketchup tastes so much better than mustard. About sex.

What are you reading right now? Bill asks.

The newspaper. There are always copies at the library.

A day late?

Free.

Ill pay for a subscription, Bill offers. Theyll take them right to your place.

Its better this way. Things are okay, Dad. Youre worrying too much.

Thats what Im supposed to do.

Jesus Christ.

What?

Okay then. Its nothing. Its good. Thank you.

On the first snowfall of the season, four scrawny preteens fan out on the sidewalk so he cant pass. He steps out onto the dead street and they circle him. He tries to play it cool, tells them he has no money, then raises his fists and turns in a circle as they lunge toward and away from him, taunting. He cowers. They rap him on the skull a few times, and since he left his wallet between his mattress and bedsprings, they take his booze and jacket. He runs home, sits on the floor of the scum-slick shower, head down, arms on his knees, catching water in his palms. Then he clenches his fists.