Chapter 4

The Sun was still tolerable at this point for me, even if a bit uncomfortable, though I knew that was certain to grow worse over time. The only question was when that would happen and what the others would do when it did. At some point, three people involved in managing Rosita’s Inn would be unable to work in daylight hours at all. To whom would we turn, then? Such were my thoughts as I looked through the file cabinets at the rents, ledgers, and such. Remember, this was the seventies. We had no internet back then, just files, paperwork, typewriters, etc. No one had a personal desktop, let alone a laptop, a tablet, or a cellphone.

I worked my way through the day and was about to go for lunch, when none other than Elaine walked through the door, evidently looking for me. Well, she found me sooner than expected, much to her surprise. She turned white as a Klan hood as she realized that I was not only very much alive, but in shockingly good health for a gunshot victim. The only thing dragging me down was the heightened sensitivity to sunlight, well, that and her presence.

“Ah, my loving wife, here to finish me off, I suppose!” I mocked Elaine, making her grimace a bit at my words.

“Look ... I was ... high, okay? I shouldn’t have shot you, but I was ... high. It was cocaine. I did some lines with my boyfriend, Kirby. He was celebrating his latest promotion at Exxon. He’s moving in, just so you know. That’s why you had to go right then. Look, I’m getting a job with him and starting over. I just want to make sure that we’re ... good. Sorry I shot you, but ... well, you were trespassing now that it was my house instead of ours,” Elaine continued to show fuzzy logic.

“So, you were high then, are you drunk now? The only reason that I don’t sue your sorry ass for the house in the divorce is that it no longer matters to me. The only reason that I don’t press charges against you for shooting me is that no one would believe that I survived a gunshot wound like that. Hell, if it weren’t Penelope and her mother, Rosita, I wouldn’t have survived. Don’t try to get alimony out of me, either. I’ve stopped teaching, so that’s gonna be a lot of substitutes that they have to find, and I now own nearly nothing, so I can’t exactly afford to pay you jack squat.

“In fact, I’m not filing for divorce myself. If you want one, you have to find grounds and a lawyer. If they call me into court, I’ll just tell them that I’m homeless thanks to you and living in an inn on the charity of two good women. I haven’t received a paycheck for this, so officially, I’m unemployed, too,” I snapped at Elaine, putting her off-balance a bit with my aggression.

“Well, here. This is money from the bank for you. I withdrew it myself. A cash withdrawal while closing the joint-account. I imagine that you’ll get one final paycheck from the school at least, too, to help. It’s the least that I could do for shooting you and putting you out on the street. I never meant it to go so far. I just want to start over with Kirby. He’s ambitious, unlike you. That’s what I want in life, a man who’s driven, has the hustle to do what needs done. You’re content to live like this? It’s just not for me. Kirby’s a bit of a yuppie, you know, and so am I,” Elaine explained herself as she paid me off ... and quite frankly, I took the money.

I didn’t care about Elaine anymore, I realized. This was just like ripping off a bandage for both of us. I was pissed that she shot me, but at least she made a peace offering of sorts. It turned out that she also had a bag or two of possessions for me, things that she thought that I might want in time. I made a note to pawn probably half of it at least for more liquidity. I definitely wanted cash more than anything else at the moment. I planned to use that for beer money or whatever else while waiting to transform into a creature of the night.

“Goodbye, Elaine. May you be happy in the life that you’ve chosen,” I quoted Belle from Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.

Elaine being Elaine, she didn’t even catch onto the shade that I just threw her way, just unironically accepting it as a kind farewell. It occurred to me now that she probably never even read any works by Charles Dickens or any other great authors, at least not without being assigned said book by her teachers in school. She simply nodded, gave me a surprising last, albeit chaste, peck on the lips, and walked back to her ‘72 Pontiac Tempest in a hurry to avoid me. She didn’t even question how or why I had survived so well. Not a deep thinker, that wife of mine.