The pause that—
“Hey, Kip,” said Kevin. “You want a Coke?”
“What?” I said.
You had to have been there to see what was mildly fucked about his question: he’s on the ground, scratching his dog’s head, and I’m some fifteen feet up in the air on a neighbor’s ladder, caulking the top of a window frame and an ineptly drilled hole where someone fed the television cable into an upstairs room. I’ve been meaning to fix it for a while now, but a) had no ladder and b) it’s been raining a lot, so. But here I am, wrestling with a caulking gun, a tube of caulk that’s recalcitrant at best, and rising gusts of wind, and Kevin’s asking me if I want a Coke. Sure. What the fuck.
So I get the caulking done, and he brings me a Coke, and I climb down off the ladder and carry it back around the house and set it down on its side and step back and take a deep breath. I don’t think I like heights much, or ladders. But really, it’s best to figure that out after you’ve gotten down, than otherwise.
Chore done, I take the Coke inside and sit down to take back up the task of writing that bloody introduction, and every now and then I sip some Coke. I don’t drink soda or cola (or, as we call it generically in the South, “Coke,” as in: “What kind of Coke you want with your burger?” “Root beer”) all that much anymore. I like beer and wine and seltzer water and a little sugar in my coffee which I drink by the pot, but me and pop parted ways some time ago. Still. Every now and then. You know?
But what I’m noticing is, it’s been an hour or so, and I’m halfway through the 20 oz. (250 mL, apparently), and I’ve still got this racing tension in my chest, you know? Little jitters running down my arms and into my fingers, like my nerves are nervous, firing at shadows. And I’m thinking it’s maybe an after-effect of the ladder and the height and the stupid bloody caulk, but no, it’s been too long for that.
No—I think it’s actually the Coke. Geeze.
Plus my teeth have that weird dry filmy feeling, now.
(What? I have to get back to writing the other thing? Aw, c’mon. I can stretch this out for another joke or three. Honest. I could. —Geeze. You never let me have any fun. Bastard.)
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