Hurry Home
M.
L. Fortier
Not
again. Racing home, must make it by eight pm. Such long days at the office.
Vicious honks behind me; shaking, I press down on the accelerator. Already
7:30, no time to stop for fruits on weekdays. I devour a ton for a 5’4” guy.
Thank
fate, I’ve found a workable apartment. My salvation. Since I moved in, Dad has
asked to visit. No way. Naturally, I can’t invite co-workers. Out of the
question to bring friends home (not that I have any) since my major transition
two years ago.
Before
that, I was normal. More or less. I’ve been agonizingly careful—to pay rent on
time, to hide up on floor three, to keep inside the one-bedroom place. Some
nights I can’t hold back from hopping, leaping to the floor, throwing stuff. I
apologize, as civilized as possible, to the white-haired lady below me.
Tonight
I’m running late, due to construction outside Chicago. 7:45, I’m sweating,
heart pounding. Try to focus on bananas; my simple haven with heavy drapes over
the big windows. A marvelous humidifier. Huge plants, almost trees, crowd
around a small couch.
Swings
are suspended from the ceiling of a back room (which was meant to be a
bedroom). Huge bins of fruit are stuffed in a shadowed corner of the
kitchenette. I display a microwave and coffeemaker—everything looks somewhat
typical in case Maintenance must come.
Concentrate;
change lanes. Wish I could have gotten a crash pad closer to my office in
Chicago. But this one is wonderfully far from my dad and my snoopy brother’s
family.
7:50.
Miles from home. My neck crackles. Why must trouble descend now? I’ve been so
good at keeping super-clean and avoiding odors. Mornings at 8, as soon as I
look less hairy, I quick throw on duds and gulp coffee.
Never
have I eaten bananas without removing the peel. I clean up after gorging on
pecans, mangoes. I’ve even given up lizards.
Last
week I couldn’t help staring at a bird’s egg, splashed onto my deck. Though I
avoid emerging there, I jumped outside after dark and scooped up the runny
yolk. Hungering, I crawled up the drainpipe to the next balcony; groped for a
nest craving more eggs. The neighbor (a loudmouth) yelled and I shimmied back
down. Hope he just saw a furry face and guessed it was a raccoon.
I
never eat humans—honest. Longed to throw poop at Loudmouth, but exercised
restraint. More than these wise guys.
7:55,
a traffic jam. Omg, my skin itches like hell. Bones ache, one step above agony.
Muscles tighten. I’m going to ruin another shirt. The car turns onto the last
intersection.
Fingers
burst as claws click on the steering wheel. Eyes and ears sharpen in the dark.
Teeth thrust out, making gums bleed.
What
will neighbors say?
Will
I reach home before I turn completely into a monkey?
