He gets in the cab outside the apartment complex. He’s maybe 25 years old. His fingernails are long and filthy and he’s wearing $90 jeans.
“Take me to the Northwest hospital,” he says. “ER. Shit, I just came home a couple of hours ago and found my wife on the floor. The ambulance came and they said I could ride with them, but when I went to get my coat, they fucking left me. I mean, she’s been depressed lately, but I didn’t think she’d go this far. Her doctor gave her pills for her depression and she fucking took the whole bottle.”
“Oh, man,” I say, “I’m sorry.”
“Fuck, the holidays, you know?”
“Yeah.”
“Hey, is there a mini-mart we can stop at? I need a Red Bull. I don’t want to fall asleep.”
“Sure, there’s one on the corner here.”
I pull in and he gets out. I can see him through the window of the mini-mart; he goes up to the counter, then apparently forgets something and runs back to an aisle and comes back to the counter again. Then he points and I can see the cashier pulling out some lottery scratch-offs. He stands there and scratches them off while a couple of other people stand behind him in line. He comes out.
And I take him to the hospital.
***
This is an excerpt from Mather Schneider’s new memoir, 6 to 6. You can purchase the book from Terror House Press here.
Mather Schneider is a writer living in Puerto Peñasco, Mexico. He has had many stories and poems published and has four books on Amazon. Mather is also the author of 6 to 6, available from Terror House Press.
