Lt. Kenneth Shea (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lt_shea62truck) wrote2012-05-23 02:31 am
lt_shea62truck) wrote2012-05-23 02:31 am
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Kenny managed to fit the key into the lock on his third try. On unsteady feet, he shuffled into his apartment and switched on the dingy yellow light. At this point the cockroaches didn't even bother to scatter, and just loitered around, regarding Kenny as an interloper. He was too drunk and apathetic to notice. He pulled off his jacket, dropped it on the floor, and plopped into the ratty armchair at the foot of the bed.
As if on cue, the upstairs neighbors started screaming again.
"Oh, for fuck's sake, shut up," Kenny yelled at the ceiling.
That sort of thing never helped.
He turned the TV on and pushed the volume up to the highest level. It was the History Channel, and apparently they were in the middle of Hitler Week.
Kenny put his face in his hands.
If not for his paycheck and the flotsam and jetsam that he managed to sell after the divorce, he would be destitute. But it wasn't his ex-wife's fault. Sure, he was angry at her for leaving him with barely a scrap.
But his secret savings. He could still be living off of his secret savings. But no...that was gone, all gone. And he could only blame himself.
Miserable to the core, he dug around in an ash tray and retrieved a cigar stump, then fumbled in his pocket for matches.
The book of matches read Milliways.
This gave Kenny pause. He needed his own door. The door at the firehouse was fine, but it was Tommy's first, and he needed one for himself. Here. Now.
Heaving himself up and out of the chair (it took some effort to not tip over), he went over to the nearest door, that being the door to the bathroom, and flung it open.
"Shit," he said, because it was still the bathroom.
But then there was the closet door! He'd almost forgotten about it, because he never used it except to store the cardboard boxes full of shit he'd forgotten about. With a longing, drunken hope, he clutched the matchbook in one hand, put his other hand on the doorknob (but first shooing a cockroach away), and pulled it open.
As if on cue, the upstairs neighbors started screaming again.
"Oh, for fuck's sake, shut up," Kenny yelled at the ceiling.
That sort of thing never helped.
He turned the TV on and pushed the volume up to the highest level. It was the History Channel, and apparently they were in the middle of Hitler Week.
Kenny put his face in his hands.
If not for his paycheck and the flotsam and jetsam that he managed to sell after the divorce, he would be destitute. But it wasn't his ex-wife's fault. Sure, he was angry at her for leaving him with barely a scrap.
But his secret savings. He could still be living off of his secret savings. But no...that was gone, all gone. And he could only blame himself.
Miserable to the core, he dug around in an ash tray and retrieved a cigar stump, then fumbled in his pocket for matches.
The book of matches read Milliways.
This gave Kenny pause. He needed his own door. The door at the firehouse was fine, but it was Tommy's first, and he needed one for himself. Here. Now.
Heaving himself up and out of the chair (it took some effort to not tip over), he went over to the nearest door, that being the door to the bathroom, and flung it open.
"Shit," he said, because it was still the bathroom.
But then there was the closet door! He'd almost forgotten about it, because he never used it except to store the cardboard boxes full of shit he'd forgotten about. With a longing, drunken hope, he clutched the matchbook in one hand, put his other hand on the doorknob (but first shooing a cockroach away), and pulled it open.