Clean, Dead Steve

Plastic. I need plastic. Garbage bags? Those’ll work. I’ll need big ones. Under the sink? Okay, yes. And rubber bands. Where would he have rubber bands?? Desk. Desk, where’s the desk . . . living room? Bedroom? No desk! Who doesn’t have a desk? I’ve gotta hurry. Jesus. How long before bodies start to smell? Steve was a compulsive bather, so I’ve got a few extra minutes, here.
I don’t even know if he’s dead. I should check that.

Okay, but that means going back into the kitchen. Nobody’s ever gonna eat in that kitchen again. I may never eat again. I should check for a pulse, here.

No . . . nothing. Why do I keep expecting him to wake up? Even with that dent in his head, I can’t believe Steve’s done for. He always was kinda lopsided, actually. Glasses always crooked. God, I’m going to miss him. He was a great listener. Jesus, Laura! Get back on track. What if someone calls? Or stops by?

Here, I’ve got some hair ties in my purse. I’ll just . . . wait. Can they be traced? Have I used them? Crap! All right. All right . . . think. I’ll just wrap him up real tight, especially the . . . head region. No brains leaking out, so that’s one good thing. I am so going to hell. He’s got the cutest overbite.
Oh, great. And the curtains are open. Hang on, Laura, just close the curtains. It’s still afternoon. Nobody pays attention to these things. Nobody paid attention to Steve, either, until I came along.

Poor clean Steve. Poor clean dead Steve.
Giggling’s not helping, here. Okay, garbage bags. Tape. I need tape. No tape? Jesus, Steve. Would a trip to Office Max have killed you?
Why didn’t I just leave? Just walk out? He made me so freaking mad! And there I was: heavy, ceramic ashtray in my hand. Stand up for yourself, Steve! I had bigger balls than he did, for crissakes. Here I am, dumping his pathetic ass, and he just sits there. Asks me to stay for dinner. He’s making lasagna, he says. Too much for one person. God, Steve. I don’t really need to worry about anyone stopping by, do I?
I wonder if I should turn on the stereo. Keep things natural, like he’s here, hanging out, still alive. What do the neighbors hear coming from Steve’s apartment? Lessee . . . CDs. Yanni? David Arkenstone? John Tesh? Steve. Dude. You’re killing me, here. I can’t do it. I’m sorry. I’d rather go to prison.

Okay, back on track. Back on track. Garbage bags, check. Blanket, check. Now, I’ve just gotta . . . touch him. Hm. He looks . . . cold. Kinda sunken. Maybe if I just left, when he was found, it would look like an accident. Like he fell, hit his head. Repeatedly. Yeah, I know. I gotta do this. He doesn’t look very peaceful. I hope I look better when I’m dead.

Where am I taking him? I should think about this. Sure as hell don’t wanna leave him in my trunk while I figure this out. That could take hours. Wait a minute. Maybe that’s a better idea. Get him in my trunk, then do my usual thing. Nothing out of the ordinary here, folks. Just finished canning my lame-ass boyfriend. Yes, officer, he was fine when I left. Pathetic, but fine. Really. Go to a drive thru, stop by Ramona’s for a quick gossip. What if she asks me about him, though? Okay, scratch Ramona’s. So, where?

Jesus, wait. How am I getting him out to my car? Think think think . . . ! The futon! He’s giving me his futon! Yes!! I’ll wrap him in the futon, stuff him in the trunk. Perfect.

Okay, starting today, I turn a new leaf. I’ll be nicer, wear cleaner clothes, eat more vegetables . . . pizza sounds good right now. Laura! C’mon! Okay. God, he’s heavy. I really should work out more often. Well, once I get him to the window, it’s all gravity from there. What was that segment on David Letterman? Dropping stuff from rooftops? That was funny stuff. I hope Steve makes the drop intact. Falling from the second floor isn’t easy on anyone. Well, the futon should keep him from busting open. Hm. That’s a picture.

What time is it? Four O’clock? Gotta get this show on the road. Found a few bungee cords in the closet. That should work. Just need . . .to get . . .the Steve burrRRRITO . . . on . . . the . . . SILL.
Okay, bomb’s away! Ooh, that looked like that would’ve hurt. Good thing Steve’s got a fenced yard. And he missed the air conditioner unit. So, I’ll pull around the gate, and I’m off. This getting away with murder is pretty easy, really.

Oh, fuck! Nice doggie. Niiiice doggie. Go away. Here’s a stick. See the stick? Go chase it! Go! Hm.
So, I’ve got a dog following me & dead Steve. What next? A gaggle of kids? A murder of crows? Love that. No idea where that came from, but it’s so cool. People come in hordes, crows come in murders. Wish I was a crow right now. Crows got no worries. Nobody wants to eat them, and all they have to do is fly around and pick up fries from the McDonald’s parking lot. What a life.

Wow. Grass makes dragging a dead body so much easier. No, no. Don’t chew on that. Drop it. Drrrop it! Dumb dog. Comforting to know, when the revolution comes, and I’m lying in a ditch somewhere, dead, man’s best friend is first at the table. Bib around his neck that says ‘Larry’s Lobster House’.

Open the trunk, and alley-OOP! Steve, ya gotta start laying off the lasagna. Alright, pooch. Gotta go, now. Tell no one what you have seen here today. Again with the giggling. Maybe it’s stress giggling. I’ll have to look that up when I get home.

So, what now, Steve? Where am I gonna put you? This would be much easier if I lived near a lake. Or a shipping channel. Sailors are always beating innocent people to death. I’m not sure they wrap them like burritos in futons, but I’m not that choosy right now. Where’s an angry sailor when I could use one? Long John Silver’s? Arrrgh. Fish sounds good, actually.

Okay, the plan. I’ll wait until dark, drive out to the desert, and bury the Steve burrito. Either he’ll dry up and disintegrate in a matter of weeks, or the coyotes will dig him up and eat him. Either way, I'm good. Nobody will ever look for Steve in the desert. Steve and the outdoors are like . . . well, mayonnaise and peanut butter.

God, I'm hungry. Long John Silver’s, it is.