by breakylegg

Only Chester Peake could make an exit like that – throwing open the front door of his apartment, bolting headlong into daylight, cutting across the lawn, stuffed garbage bag in one hand, other clamped over his mouth, then stopping dead in his tracks in crabgrass, dropping the bag, doubling over, vomiting on his bare feet, picking up the bag, racing toward the parking lot where the dumpster sat, only gaining a few yards before stopping, retching on the sidewalk, drawing a deep breath, snatching up the bag, sprinting while dry heaving, guttural moan trailing in his wake, whereupon he at last conceded by flinging the bag at the dumpster and collapsing in a heap on black asphalt as the bag sailed over the wall behind the dumpster out into the street. He got up slow and, upon seeing spilled blood, screamed enraged at the sky as if the sun itself had torn the flesh of his palms and knee. Chester had inherited his father’s white-hot temper, which teetered on the brink of psychosis during flare ups. I didn’t know what to expect as he approached and said, “What was in there, a fetus?” He passed me staring at the grass wiping bloody palms on his shorts. “Some kind of meat,” he muttered, limping slightly, as I followed him inside and shut the door.


breakylegg, author of OHCYSP, wrote the above piece about running, because these days he wears a knee brace and is unable to; plus, he still misses W.E.G. after all these years.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Your pieces are always a mystery. Nice work.