Randall

         It was after midnight when Randall pulled into his driveway, and before shutting the car off, he hit the switch on his dashboard to lower the convertible top of his white BMW.  The cold, artificial air that had surrounded him during his drive home now slid away, yielding to the inward rush of hot and humid late summer air that enveloped him with an almost recognizable embrace. 
        He laid his head back on the headrest and gave an audible sigh. Tonight had not been a good night.  He closed his eyes, trying to force the memory away.  Try as he might, though, it wouldn’t go, so he opened them and attempted to concentrate on his physical surroundings.  He soon began to notice that in many ways, tonight was a good night.  The sky was clear, the stars were out in full force, and hovering high in the sky was a perfect crescent moon, thin and bright.  He looked at his house. It was one of those cookie-cutter types in one of those cookie-cutter neighborhoods; and thanks to a local landscaping service, he even had a cookie-cutter lawn to match.  This didn’t really bother him, though.  A little normalcy in an otherwise abnormal life was ok with him.
        After a moment, Randall reached under his seat and pulled out the pint of whiskey he had purchased earlier.  He broke the seal, and pressed the glass to his lips, taking a long, savoring gulp.  As the warmth descended and spread throughout his body, Randall reached down and pulled on the lever to lower the back of his seat a few degrees.  He then reached into his pocket and pulled out two joints, one of which he placed on the passenger seat beside him.  After rearranging his crotch for ultimate comfort, something he suspected only a guy could understand, he pulled his lighter out of the other pocket and lit one end of the joint he still held.
        As he sat there getting drunk and high, Randall let the sounds of the hot night inundate his senses.  The chirping crickets were on the forefront of this nighttime orchestra, and an inexperienced or uninterested listener might find him or herself receptive to no other sounds.  Randall, however, was neither inexperienced nor uninterested.  Sitting there in his car, he opened himself up to the sounds of the night, letting it all wash over him.
        The crickets were there of course, but behind them, almost like a man-made base line, was the sound of hundreds of air conditioning units, humming rhythmically and ceaselessly, keeping all the nice people cool in all their nice houses.  Beyond the humming of the air conditioners, a little to the northeast, Randall could hear the whooshing sound of the cars and trucks as they zoomed up and down the interstate.  Closer still, but fainter, were the other sounds from the neighborhood: A barking dog; a trash can toppling over; the intense argument of a couple three houses down.  All of this flowed into and over Randall, as he lay reclined in the driver’s seat of his car.
        Inevitably, and despite his best intentions, Randall’s thoughts began to drift back to what happened earlier.  He was standing in his girlfriend’s kitchen; or rather, his ex-girlfriend’s kitchen, trying to comfort her as she cried.  He had just broken up with her, his mate of two years, and even as he tried to console her, he knew he was the last person she wanted to be around at that moment.  He knew he’d waited too long; way too long, but it’d had to be done.  He didn’t love her did he?  Did he?  Why had she suddenly started talking about marriage and family?  Maybe it was just a phase, he thought.  After all, they were both in their early thirties.  This was probably just some natural animalistic instinct that decided to rear its ugly head at this particular moment.
        Randall took a hit off his joint.  He just couldn’t put the pieces together.  Why was this happening?  Hadn’t he been clear when he’d said he didn’t want a family; that he wasn’t that kind of man?  Why did she want this now?  Didn’t she love him?  Didn’t he love her?
        Randall took a long draught of whiskey and considered that maybe his own personal set of character traits didn’t allow him the possibility of knowing what love was.  The realization of this possibility made him feel incredibly empty, and incredibly sad.  He took another toke and tried not to think about it. 
        He exhaled, and when he did, he caught a bit of movement in the passenger side mirror from the corner of his eye.  He took a closer look, chuckled inwardly at the pun that objects in mirrors are closer than they appear, although upon further consideration, couldn’t find the pun, and saw George and Rick strolling up the side of his paved driveway.  Who else, Randall thought to himself.  They must have seen him sitting in his car from across the street.
        “What’s up Mr. Anderson”, asked Rick; he was always the cordial one, “up kind of late for a school night aren’t you?”
        “I could say the same thing of you, don’t you think, mister Foster?” replied Randall.  Randall hated being called mister, and George and Rick both knew it.  It just seemed too formal to him.  He encouraged all of his students to address him by his first name, and most of them did.  George and Rick weren’t just his students, though.  They were also his neighbors, and they were good friends.  Grinning, Rick hopped into the back seat.  George came in through the passenger door. He picked up the joint that was lying there as he sat down. “Is this for us?” he asked.
        Randall looked at him and handed over the lighter.  “As long as you stop calling me Mr. Anderson, you can have as many of those as you want.”
        “Thanks Randall,” George replied, smiling. 
        Randall sighed and shook his head.  George flicked the lighter, took a couple of puffs, and then passed the joint back to Rick, who inhaled contentedly.
        “Lock yourself out of the house again,” asked George, “or did you and Alisha have another argument?”
        “Argument,” replied Randall.  “The final argument.  I broke up with her.”
        “Whoa, man,” said Rick, handing the joint back up to George, “I thought you guys would get married for sure.  What happened?”
        Randall looked down at his lap, still holding the pint of whiskey in his right hand.  “She wanted to get married,” he said, “so I broke up with her.”
        Rick and George looked at each other for a moment.  Finally Rick spoke, “What’s wrong with getting married?”
        He looked at Rick silently for moment through the rearview mirror, unable to find an answer.  Rick waited patiently until it was obvious that Randall wasn’t going to respond, then sat back to enjoy the world through his THC enhanced eyes and ears. George, feeling the mood, sat back in his seat as well.  He passed the joint back and forth a few times with Rick until there was almost nothing left, then flicked the roach into the grass.  The three of them sat there silently for a while, each lost in his own thoughts.
        Randall, of course, thought again of Alisha; not of their argument earlier, though, just Alisha.  He thought of her smile, and the way that she tilted her head just a little to the left when she was really happy; and how, when she was angry, she assumed a stance of utter aloofness, lifting her chin up and crossing her arms.  Randall enjoyed thinking of Alisha’s crossed arms; whenever she did this, it accentuated her cleavage in a most satisfying manner.  Even now, as he sat in his car daydreaming of it, Randall could feel the blood stir between his legs.
        He thought of her slim yet plump body, and how they would whisper to each other and tickle each other under the covers after making love.  He imagined again the feel of her soft skin as he ran his hand down her naked back, and remembered the comfort he felt when she held him in her arms.  It seemed that no matter what was going on, everything was always ok whenever Alisha was near.
        Randall sighed longingly.  He thought back to the pregnancy scare they’d had less than a year ago; or rather, to the scare he’d had.  He had been quite relieved when the test had come back negative.  Alisha, on the other hand, had seemed a little disappointed.  It had been an unsure time for both of them.  Randall considered this for a moment, then decided that it was probably just him that had been unsure.  He opened his eyes, feeling saddened and ashamed at his blatant self-centeredness.  He looked down at the empty whiskey bottle in his lap; another symbol of his selfishness.  He chucked it into his yard, where it landed with a soft plunk.
        He glanced over at George, and then back at Rick.  They had both passed out.  Rolling his eyes, Randall nudged George awake.  Sleepy-eyed, George mumbled something that Randall couldn’t make out.  It took a few moments, but he finally managed to get his two neighbors alert and out of the car, but not before they made him tell them what he was going to do.
        “I knew you’d come to your senses,” said Rick.  “Just be careful driving.  The last thing we need is some prick-ass substitute to fill in for you until they find a replacement.”
        Smiling, Randall wished his two History students a good night.  He waited until they had crossed the street and entered the house, then cranked up his car.  He decided to leave the top down.
        Driving away, Randall felt excited and refreshed; and worried.  He was excited because he knew now what he wanted:  He wanted Alisha. He wanted her to be his wife; he wanted to marry her.  He wanted to ask her to marry him.  He was worried because he knew he had hurt her terribly.  He had selfishly turned his back on her and left her alone.  He wasn’t worried that she would say no, although he was prepared for that possibility.  He just wanted to tell her that he was sorry and that she was right, and that he was wrong, and that he loved her very much.
        Despite his impatience, Randall forced himself to obey the speed limits.  He wasn’t concerned about his ability to drive, though.  His tolerance for alcohol and weed was quite high; a single pint of whiskey and one joint were hardly enough to destabalize his equilibrium.  A breathalizer test, however, didn’t measure tolerance.  If he were pulled, he would go to jail for sure. 
        Thankfully his cautiousness paid off, and in about 15 minutes Randall was approaching the apartment complex where Alisha lived.  As he pulled into her parking lot, he noted that the lights in Alisha’s apartment were still on.  Good, he thought to himself, she’s still awake.  He pulled into a visitor parking space, then raced up to her third floor apartment, taking the steps two at a time.  Using the key she had given him long ago, Randall opened the door and walked in.
        “Alisha!”, he called out.  There was no answer.  He took a few steps and looked down the hallway. The irregular flicker of candlelight was seeping out of the barely open bathroom door.  He began walking towards it, and as he neared the door, he could hear music blaring from the portable radio Alisha always kept in there.  He smiled as he pictured her in the tub, surrounded by a mountain of bubbles.  She rarely went longer than a week without taking a bubble bath; it was one of her favorite ways to relax.
        Randall, standing outside, couldn’t wait any longer.  He opened the bathroom door, ready to tell Alisha that he loved her, ready to ask for her forgiveness.  He opened the door, but there was no reason to speak.  He just stood there as the candles radiated their soft light upon the walls.  With his hand still grasping the doorknob, Randall looked down at his beautiful Alisha, who lay not in a bath full of bubbles, but in a bath full of blood, with her open eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.  Still clutched in her left hand was the kitchen knife she had used to cut herself with.

The End