Of Misery and Men

The wooden floor is matted with a thin layer of hair. His voice is strangely high pitched, and I can't help but picture a small child whining to his mother as I glance up at his round face. His eyes dart back and forth between me and Nate. If I purse my lips tightly enough and direct my breath downward I can create a hair-free space on the floor between my feet. His girlfriend stirs the pot of chili. The twisting sinews in her arm strain visibly against the underside of her paper-thin skin. Her hands are quivering. They usually do when she thinks no one is looking. I wish there were an equivalent of the nicotine patch for heroine addicts. Looking back at Mr. Tenhoeve, even his hands are shaking under the table today. He's asking us for money again. I wouldn't give him any if I had any to give; I know where it would really be spent. His two sons squeal with delight in the corner as they play in ignorant bliss with their miniature trucks. They're filthy.
"Are you listening?"
Looking up from the floor, I confidently say, "Yes."
"Well, what do you think?"
"I think you know that we can't help you in that regard. I've told you that before."
With hardly any pause, he continues reprimanding us for our callousness and insolence. His dialect of Dutch is so harsh on the ears; every time he rolls an R, I cringe.
"You guys are my last resort. If you won't help me, then I don't know what the point is anymore..."
Nate cuts in with advice. I know what he's implying. The first time he pulled the suicide card, I was genuinely worried for this man and his fledgling family, but this must be at least the fifteenth time he's made the threat. No longer does his trump card hold any water for me. Placing my attention elsewhere, I observe that all but two pieces of furniture in this room were placed here only an hour ago by Nate and myself. While contemplating our quickest exit strategy, I think back to how we ended up here in this all-too-familiar situation.
Before leaving, we had agreed that we wouldn't allow Mr. Tenhoeve to begin his normal spiel. Arriving, I notice that toys are littered across the front yard today. Grasping the gate, I hold it at a distance from myself as I pass through. Nate follows me into the yard. Leaning beside the door is the bike that I had put to use for a few weeks months before, plastic sack draped across the seat just as I had left it. Turning toward the door, I don't have to wait long before it creaks open and two young boys rush toward us howling with joy. As the first one to make it outside clutches my right knee, I reach down and pat his blonde curls. Nate picks up his brown-haired brother and greets him profusely. Mr. Tenhoeve, standing in the doorway, bids us welcome without looking me in the eye. I muster my courage for the emotional barrage that we will certainly have to try to avoid. His girlfriend emerges from a back room and offers me her hand. She at least attempts to look me in the eye, but her gaze is too glazed over to make any real eye contact.
Having laid our coats over the radiator, Nate and I head into the backyard to fetch some chairs.

Paradise is for Dreamers

We've barricaded the doors and the windows, but still our defenses continue to crumble. I run frantically to and fro about the bottom floor looking for anything that can be used as a weapon, but find nothing. Finally, in the darkness under the staircase, my hands palpate and grasp a wooden plank. It's pliable and ready for battle. People are huddling in corners. Some of them I remember from high school, but haven't seen in years until tonight. Others, classmates and neighbors, obviously arrived here with me.
The ruddy brown walls remind me of cellars into which I've only wandered briefly, but never lingered. Sections of wallpaper peel off in self defeat. Board in hand, I arrive in the main room. I can hear the others trampling around on the floor above, and I know that it's only a matter of time before they'll be here. I need to rest, but every upholstered chair and threaded couch has been piled against each possible entrance. Instead I plop down on the dusty floor, cross my legs, and place my head in my palms in quiet frustration. Bitter weeping, sobs of fear, and polarized bickering reach my ears. After what seems like only moments, someone is calling my name frantically from down the hall. I recognize the voice as Jake's, but am still reluctant to raise my head.
The screeching scrape of a couch's wooden pegs against the hard floor sends a shock wave coursing through my body. Instantly, I know, they are here. Grabbing my sole weapon mid-leap, I'm furiously running down the hall toward the screaming breach. Jake and his brother are valiantly attempting to push the barricade back into place, but they are only stalling the coming onslaught. The buzzing hum is clearly audible behind the strained door. As I begin pushing back, the gray hands reach for me just around the door's edge. Cautiously I hammer back at them to the full extent of the plank's power. The hands withdraw, the door is shut, and the humming begins to die down.
Jake, smiling at me, rests his back against the jumbled furniture and slinks toward the ground.
"Thanks, man. Nice club." His teeth are spattered in blood. Every crease between his teeth is darkening with crimson blood. Sitting there with his teeth dripping red, Jake seems to have lost a degree of humanity, like the cannibals of exotic lore.
Lowering my club, I slowly say, "Yeah, no problem." Jake begins to chuckle, turning toward his speechless brother. His brother's gaze catches my own, but I don't hold it long enough to discern any meaning before I force myself to turn away.
Walking away from our scene of narrow victory, I stroll back toward the main room. Once inside, I immediately notice the glass scattered across the floor and the red stains streaking toward the hallways. So, it is a lost cause after all. Upon crossing the threshold into an adjoining room, the silence is violently broken. Friends and family fight in futility against their flying attackers. Bounding forward, I swing the board through the air, striking several of them down. They are surprisingly strong and don't succumb quickly to my blows. More enter the room as I run back to the hallways. At every exit, several of them stand guard rebuilding the barricades we had built to keep them out. They are keeping the last few of us in. Back again under the stairs, I put my back to the wall and strike out at the encroaching hands.
Sitting up in my bed, my eyes ache as they adjust to the bright moonlight filling the room. My hand on the wall beside me firmly solidifies reality. Lying back down, I stare at the ceiling. For once, I don't have to grasp onto the fleeting remnants of this dream, for every detail is ingrained in my mind. A hum emanating from the hall causes me to hold my breath and listen. The washer is running.