Carl the Death Driver / Ch-1 / Pt-4

Ten minutes after the midday mark, a #5 from Cousin Billy’s Rotisserie & Ribs arrived at Carl’s front door. The driver didn’t stick around for a tip, but did send an email confirmation photo of the delivery next to a cracked terra-cotta clay pot full of grey dirt. Carl had made a slow recovery from his night on the leather recliner. He fulfilled the requisite morning coffee quota and picked up on his work from the night before. Food intake was intentionally kept low in order to build an appetite and then feast upon the roasted chicken still steaming before him at the kitchen table. Carl ravenously took to the leg and thigh meat. He preferred the dark meat and the savory crunchy skin of the wing tips. With the Sunday delivery, an added value item unexpectedly accompanied Carl’s order. Two buttermilk biscuits and small plastic packets of clover honey. Carl delighted in the bonus baked goods. Tearing open a packet of honey with his teeth, the golden goop drizzled on the tabletop before finding the soft surface of a split biscuit. Carl filled the dry cavity of his mouth with fluffy sweet goodness. Before he could push the balance of biscuit past his lips, his left hand fell to the table while the support from his left leg gave way and portions of his torso went limp. His body convulsed and Carl’s gag reflex ejected the contents of his mouth, followed by the contents of his stomach. Incoming light struggled to process through the optic nerve and Carl’s vision became blurry and altogether distorted. His upper torso slumped forward onto the table and his head came to rest in a combo plate of take-out food and vomit.

Carl’s right hand grabbed the hard edge of the worn kitchen table. He still had strength in his right leg and clung to the table while his active foot scraped against the linoleum floor in a frantic clawing motion. The legs of the table screeched and shifted with the spasms of his entire body. For a moment there was equilibrium as the leg of the table had run up against Carl’s chair and the weight of his person. The stillness was awkward. At once, his damaged body was broken and balancing in a holding pattern. Seated and sprawled upon the tabletop as if he were intently listening to a colony of termites buried deep beneath the maple wood surface. His right arm trembled as ligaments stretched to their limits. Waves of tension across his lateral back muscles caused a burning sensation down the side of his rib cage and along his right shoulder blade. His toes curled within his sock and a cramping sensation surrounding his right ankle spiked in sharp pain. All other parts of his physical being were numb and nonexistent. Carl’s sense of sight was severely diminished with bright spots overtaking details of the things before his eyes. The presence of a phantom chemical odor filled his nostrils as a result of his distorted sense of smell. There was no one to call out to. The single person who had held a loving concern passed away many years before.

Concurrent and incomplete thoughts consumed the internal network of Carl’s mind. He was problem solving to course correct his physical condition with every confidence that this mishap would pass. The steps he processed were disjointed and delusional, but his emotional state was optimistic. Within seconds, Carl’s thinking turned to the clean-up that would take place. He was wiping down the table with a rag soaked in ammonia-based cleanser. The scent was overwhelming. The table shook as Carl’s grip slipped and relocked. This broke the hallucinations and rambling streams of disconnected thought. There was a sudden focus for the reality of his condition and the few moments left. Carl was overwhelmed with sorrow. An apology to himself for letting this happen; letting himself go and letting himself die. An overwhelming burst of panic set in with the realization that he was taking in small gasps of air, and his oxygen was depleting. The grip of his right hand failed and released. And at that moment Carl’s body recoiled in his ladder-back armchair. The chair tipped backward and in the mere fraction of a second of this moment, he was consumed with frustration for this predicament, which he could not escape. In a futile effort to evade a certain fall, Carl pushed off with his one working limb. The extension of his right leg rolled the wood seat that held him toward the fish tank along the wall. With the sensation of dropping toward the ground, Carl lost consciousness. Soon after a head-on collision with his fish tank and a deep laceration along his left cheek, his heart stopped, and the room was quiet.

Approaching 6:00pm, a small package passes through the front door mail slot and flops to the floor. Five hours of silence breaks. Twenty feet behind Carl’s back door, misaligned metal rollers squeal on narrow rails from within the detached garage. The aluminum door rattles its way up into the unfinished pitched roof. A sequence of melodic notes echoes throughout the rafters of the small structure; the power-up brand signature of an automobile with a silent ignition. Slowly, glass debris and tiny pieces of gravel crumple beneath all-season tires. Loud music vibrates against the interior of tempered glass windows, with barely audible, muffled sounds radiating on the outside. Once again, the aluminum door rattles and metal rollers squeal. Firm contact of the garage door hitting smooth concrete delivers a low thud and a short-lived reverberation. A prolonged and enduring silence returns. Without breath, Carl’s cold body rests in the warm security of his home. The details of his death would not be recorded in any ledger nor made official for quite some time.