Free Orchard Grove by Vincent Zandri

lusterless, and tired.
    Rather than hope, there is rage boiling up from his bulbous belly. Mark my words, if John Cattivo doesn’t kill someone someday (and I’m not talking about a dangerous criminal who’s shot at him first), he will either kill himself or be killed by someone who hates him. His ending will not be a happy one.
    To Be Continued…
     
CARL
    I’m guessing he’s a Carl with a C rather than Karl with K like Karl Marx. The latter would suggest parents with an intellect, a sense of irony, and uppitiness for lack of a better word. But the former suggests quite the opposite. Average parents who gave him an average upbringing in an average city like Albany where nothing too good or too bad happens. I’m guessing he was super jock in high school, a chick magnet (maybe the girls gave him a nickname like “God” or something), and maybe quarterback of the football team, but not quite big or fast enough to make the squad in college, meaning that by the time he’d been handed his high school diploma, his life had already peaked.
    He attended JuCo for two years before deciding to be a cop since, in his rather simple mind, it was as close as he could come to his high school football glory days without going back in time. Not a leader, but a follower who hates Cattivo’s guts but will follow the superior officer’s orders without hesitation or question nonetheless. A man who believes in the concept of team and refers to his fellow officers as “brothers in arms.”
    Is it possible he’s in love and lust with Lana as much as I am?
    Another bewitched man reduced to a useless emotional pile of rags and bones. I’m guessing that when I saw him on the phone behind the wheel of the black Suburban, his face in distress, lit cigarette dangling from his lips, he was leaving Lana a long message about how he can’t possibly live without her. That’s the way I’d write it anyway. A message that will only be listened to half way through before she deletes it and makes herself another iced coffee.
    Should I be jealous of Carl?
    Not in the least. I’m just as pathetic as he is.
    To Be Continued…

T he doorbell startled me out of my writing daze.
    Shooting a glance over my shoulder through the big living room picture window, I spotted the big brown UPS truck parked up against the curb at the end of the drive. Standing on one foot, I shoved the crutches under my arms, crossed through the living room to the front door, opened it. The stocky young man was dressed in his summertime brown shorts and shirt. He held a small package in one hand, and a clipboard in the other. Looking down at the box, I could see that it was from Victoria’s Secret.
    “Looks like the wife is trying to cheer you up, pal,” he said, handing me the electronic clipboard. “Sign on the dotted line,” he added.
    I signed and he handed me the package.
    “Thanks.”
    “Enjoy yourself,” he said, tossing me a wink. “Careful of the foot.”
    Shutting the door, I stared at the box. It was addressed to Susan. I didn’t think a whole lot about it since my wife was always ordering things online. Clothes that we couldn’t afford, for the most part. So some new underwear came as no surprise.
    Shoving the box under my arm, I carried it with me into our bedroom, set it down onto the small antique dressing table that Susan used when she made up her face and also to do her bills or write the occasional letter. It was then I noticed a few new additions to the tabletop. A brand new bottle of perfume, for one. Also, a new leather-bound notebook filled with expensive paper. Like something an artist would carry into the woods for sketching.
    Why hadn’t I noticed the new items by now?
    Maybe I’d been far too busy looking out the window and, at the same time, ignoring Susan’s table. After all, it was none of my business what she kept on top of it or didn’t, and for all I knew, the notebook and the perfume had been there for more than a year. After a