Thaddeus

Thaddeus was hunched over his Smith-Corona typewriter, hammering away at the keys. The music was loud, and for a while he didn’t hear the pounding at his door. “Do you think that’s too loud?” he asked.

“It’s kind of loud,” Caleb said.

Thaddeus nodded solemnly. “Somebody keeps calling the cops on me,” he said, “I dunno who. Undoubtedly it’s some speedbagging fuckwad. Come in while I finish this paragraph. Grab a beer or something. I might have some milk left.”

They went inside and Thaddeus went back to his desk, turning the music down along the way. It was still loud enough that they had to talk over it, and yell if they were in different rooms.

Caleb looked in the fridge and yelled, “Your milk’s gone bad! Want me to throw it away?”

“No, I can still use it!” Thaddeus yelled back.

“But it’s solid curds, bro!”

Thaddeus didn’t hear, or didn’t care. He had already started typing again, and he kept on without a word.

Caleb went to throw away the milk, but the kitchen garbage was overflowing. He put it back in the fridge. Maneuvering through a minefield of bottles and books that cluttered the floor, Caleb tip-toed like a ballerina. He made it to the couch near Thaddeus. It was covered in litter, so he cleared off a cushion and sat down. “What is this music, anyway?” he said.

“It’s Jeff Mangum’s field recordings of Appalachian folk music.” Thaddeus said, typing.

“It’s...intense,” Caleb said. “Hey listen, I can’t stay long.”

Thaddeus swiveled ‘round in his chair. “Yeah, pretty intense,” he said, “Wanna beer?”

“No man, I’m on the route. Thanks though. Listen, I dunno how to say this,” Caleb said, “but I’ve got some bad news.” He watched Thaddeus fetch a twenty-four ounce can of Steel Reserve and guzzle most of it in one long draw.

Then he sat on the couch and took a bong rip. “Well,” he said in a smoke-filled voice, “lay it on me, bro.”

“A friend of mine was in a car wreck, someone you don’t know” Caleb said. “He was drunk driving and hit an SUV. He killed someone. He’s okay but he’s going to jail. And, well, there was someone in the car with him, who you do know. It was Alice... She’s alive but she’s pretty fucked up. I thought you would wanna know.”

Caleb tried to read his friends expression, but it was blank. Thaddeus took another bong rip, coughed a bit, and leaned back into the cushions.

“Are you okay?” Caleb said.

“Absolutely,” Thaddeus said, “I’m glad she’s already seeing other people.”

“I understand if you don’t wanna talk,” Caleb said.

Thaddeus nodded.

“I’m just about done with a new story,” he said. “Wanna hear it? It’s about a guy who gets left by his wife, and then quits his job. He cancels all his luxuries and severs almost all contact with the outside world. He buys a Smith-Corona typewriter and starts drinking and writing constantly. He withdraws his savings and cancels his bank account, gives himself an ultimatum: to publish a story before his money runs out, or kill himself when the time comes. Sounds like a pip, don’t it?”

“That isn’t funny,” Caleb said.

~~~

A few minutes later Caleb offered to take Thaddeus to a grocery store. Thaddeus tried to decline, but Caleb insisted on making sure that Thaddeus had some fresh food. On the way, he tried to confront Thaddeus about “the mess” he was making of his life. He said he was worried, that his best friend was self-destructing. He made a sentimental speech about growing up together, sharing the agony of their parents both splitting up the same year in high school, their horrible private school, their first dramatic romances, and how they used to be bros. Thaddeus didn’t say anything until they’d parked in front of a newly opened Savemart, and Caleb had stopped talking. He looked out the window at a banner that said, in big colorful print, ‘GRAND OPENING’. “I think that’s what I’ll call this story,” he said.

“Are you even listening to me?” Caleb said.

Thaddeus sighed heavily and stared at the banner. “What do you want me to do, bro? Go get my job back? Stop drinking? Find some other job? Go out and get laid? Clean up my apartment?”

“Yeah,” Caleb said. “That all sounds pretty good, actually. You look like shit, you smell like shit, your place smells like shit, you never leave it, and your stories are fucking dismal. I don’t think you even want to get published. I don’t know you anymore.”

Thaddeus nodded. “Anything else?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Caleb said, “maybe not buy anymore alcohol.”

Thaddeus opened the door but hesitated before getting out of the van. “People are going to do what they’re going to do,” he said, “and sometimes all you can do is keep watching, or look away. Neither choice is inherently wrong, so don’t worry, bro. That’s just how life goes. People are one thing, then they’re another and another, and then one day they’re just bones.”

~~~

When Thaddeus saw how busy the place was, he opted for a basket rather than a cart. Channel Thirty Action News was there filming some reporter as she toured the store with a microphone, a smattering of shoppers gawking in tow. It seemed a little over the top to Thaddeus. But he didn’t pay it much attention. He grabbed some eggs, cheese, bread, sausage, mixed veggies, the biggest bottle of vodka he could find, a twelve-pack of Steel Reserve, and went to check out. As he waited in line he noticed that a bunch of manager-looking types were all gathered in front of the doors. He’d seen this happen before, when people got caught shoplifting. But he didn’t see any security guards. The news crew had made its way outside, and he assumed they were leaving.

Before he knew it he was rung up, and found himself paying the clerk. He took his receipt and change, and realized something or other was happening. People were clapping and cheering at him. The clerk was beaming. One of the manager-looking types was patting him on the shoulder. They told him that he was the one thousandth customer, and that he’d won a shopping spree. They gave him a cart and told him he had five minutes to fill it with whatever he wanted. He was escorted to the starting line, as if it was a race. They sounded an air horn and clapped some more. He walked forward, determined, but casual. The news crew followed him. He walked to the liquor aisle and started filling his cart with all of his favorite hard alcohols, and everything he’d never tried. Then, with plenty of room left over, he went for whatever was big and expensive. They sounded the horn again when five minutes were up. By then no one was cheering anymore. The customers had booed him half way through and lost interest. The news crew had stopped filming. The manager had asked him to reconsider, telling him that it made the supermarket look bad. He threatened to sue them publicly if they tried to back out of the deal. When he left, the manager called him an asshole.

The cart was really heavy and Thaddeus was worried about the bottles breaking, so he had to push it slowly. Caleb could see him walking up. He rolled down the passenger window and yelled, “What the fuck, Thaddeus?”

Thaddeus grinned.

Caleb rolled up the passenger window, started the van, and left. He flipped Thaddeus off while he drove away, and Thaddeus waved back at him. He started pushing his cart towards home, which was roughly three miles away.

He enjoyed the three-mile walk home. A few people asked him why he was pushing a cart full of alcohol down the street and he’d respond by asking them what their favorite liquor was. Once they told him, he’d give them a bottle and invite them to his apartment. More than ten people ended up following him. When they got to his place, they all got really hammered. Eventually, when all of them had either passed out or left, Thaddeus Sterling went over to his Corona-Smith typewriter, and set his fingers on the keys.