Disintegration Read Online Free Page A

I’ve seen Holly, so I decide on the artificial. I toss back two Happy pills and finish them off with the last frosty swallow of my beer. I’m not driving. I lean over the large black trash bag that squats at my feet and drop the can into it. A metallic clank, and I tie the red ribbons shut.
    “Crap. Gotta empty this, now.”
    I wander back to the kitchen and prop open the window. Yanking open the cabinet I stare at five hundred cans of cat food. Things just show up sometimes. Part of the deal, the payments. A scratch at my door, and seventy-two rolls of toilet paper. A thump in the hall and a case of Jim Beam. A whisper in my ear and a pallet of cat food. I tear open Super Supper and dump it into one of two bowls I own and set it on the floor. I grab the other brown ceramic bowl, fill it with tap water, and place it next to the other. They sit under the window, so I won’t trip over them later. So many nights I’ve stumbled into this kitchen only to impale myself on the sawhorse monstrosity.
    Back to the door, and I pick up the trash. Opening it I head out into the hall. I have neighbors.
    Next door, Guy. #2F. Big fat slob of a man. Never seen him leave. I think he deals drugs. The sickly sweet smell of pot constantly oozes from under his door. I’ve heard he has books piled up to the ceiling. If I ever have the desire to get stoned and read some William Burroughs, I’ll bang on his door.
    Downstairs. Whole first floor. Nice young alternative couple. Pale, black hair, tats and piercings. She’s pinup-girl hot, and he’s freaky, skinny strange. The usual around here. He must have a huge cock. And I think she brings a girlfriend home now and then. Youth.
    Up top. #3R. Right above me. French girl. Paulina. We’ve passed in the hall. Well rounded and shy. I think she’s a nurse. I could fall asleep in her cleavage. From her screams and stomping around, I figure there must be a boyfriend back in Nice. Her eyes wander. I may have to borrow some sugar.
    #3F. No idea. Another ghost. I smell curry now and then. The mailbox only says Avinash. I don’t know if that’s a man or a woman, a first name or last.
    Down the steps, sixty-four of them. I count them every time. In my childhood, I would do the same thing, at water fountains, I think. Sipping cold water and counting the swallows. I don’t know why.
    Keys at the front door and voices. Vlad. And somebody else. I stop.
    “I’m telling you, Officer,” he says in an especially loud voice. “Not him, no way. He’s only been here for six months, not three years.”
    I turn around like I’m sneaking out of my parents’ house. Past their bedroom and their brass bed, high as a kite, on tippy-toes. Back up the stairs and I skitter down the hall.
    “No, I’d say more like six foot two, one eighty, not six feet, two twenty. And definitely not blond hair.”
    They keep on coming as I head to the back door, pushing it open and I’m down the back stairs, praying I don’t bang the bag of crushed aluminum and alert them to my flight. Faster and faster around and around I go. It can’t be me. The van?
    Heading out the back door, for a split second I can still hear them. The door at the top of the stairs is open, and right before the door at the bottom closes shut, right before it seals the voices out, I hear one thing.
    “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that, sir. He’s been missing….”
    And the door clicks shut. I’m out the back, down three steps, and across the cement path to the back alley. I deposit the black trash bag into an open dumpster and head north toward Division. A bus to catch. Back over to the 21 south on Milwaukee. Down to Fulton Market.
    What was that about?

Chapter 15
    I can see the 21 coming from across the tiny plaza where Division, Milwaukee, and Ashland meet. Happy is kicking in, tracers flying off the back of the bus, and I realize I’m not moving. I thud down the sidewalk, eastbound toward the corner. I have to beat it to the stop. It catches