Free The Ups and Downs of Being Dead by M. R. Cornelius

sober, I’ll find him a job –
on Doug’s recommendation. It may take him a while to get on his feet, but we’re
not going to provide a free ride anymore. We’ll monitor his progress and when
we think the time is right, we’ll let him fly solo.”
    Dear God. Martin even opened his palm like he was letting a
little bird go. What an idiot. Hadn’t he learned anything about Robbie in the
past twenty-six years?

CHAPTER SEVEN

 
 
    Robert stood in front of the art deco apartment building in
New York City’s Battery Park. A doorman wearing a deep burgundy waistcoat with
gold braided epaulets jerked open the glass door and a woman carrying a
briefcase burst out onto the street. Immediately, the doorman dashed to the
curb, tweeting the whistle around his neck. A cab swooped over, and the woman
was in and gone in seconds.
    According to Amanda, the building was filled with young
professionals eager to make their mark in the business world. She actually
thought these up-and-comers would be a good influence on Robbie.
    He shook his head as he passed through the brass elevator
doors and drifted up to the twelfth floor. Once inside Robbie’s apartment,
Robert froze to take in the disarray.
    Some kid was passed out on the sofa, a beer bottle tilted in
the crook of his arm, the remains of the beer dripping off the boy’s elbow onto
the leather cushions.
    The coffee table was piled with empty beer cans; an uncapped
bottle of vodka sat half full. Ashes overflowed a saucer, and some of the
cigarette butts looked like they had been stubbed out right on the glass
tabletop. There were pot stems and seeds scattered amongst the ashes, and pills
strewn about. A candle had been left burning; the wax had drizzled onto the
glass and over the side where it had puddled and dried in the plush carpet.
    The kitchen was illuminated by the refrigerator door
standing wide open, dirty dishes were piled in the sink, empty food containers
littered the counter. Robert was certain the garbage overflowing the basket
reeked. The place was prime for infestation. Didn’t the tenants’ association
ever check these units out?
    As he passed the bathroom, he glanced in. Towels and dirty
clothes had been pushed to the walls to make a path to the toilet that was
sprinkled with pubic hairs and urine stains.
    There was no path in the bedroom, just strewn clothes
everywhere. Robbie and some girl lay sleeping, the sheets a tangled mess. It
was obvious the bed had not been made in weeks. Good Lord, with all the money
Amanda sent, couldn’t Robbie shell out the cost of a cleaning service at least
once a month?
    The girl looked like a tramp, her tight blue jeans ripped in
strategic places, her arms swathed in bracelets. She hadn’t even taken the time
to remove her high-heeled ankle boots before collapsing on the bed. Her
camisole was so loose that one of her breasts spilled out; a tattoo of a
snake’s head lay perched on top, with its forked tongue licking at her nipple.
Where her top separated from her low-slung pants, Robert saw the snake’s body
continue down her belly and into her jeans.
    He forced his eyes away.
    Robbie lay flat on his back, steadily snoring through his
gaping mouth. A sudden reflex caused Robbie to choke and he coughed so hard it
woke him up. He wobbled to sitting. Then with his head between his knees, he
hacked until he produced a blob of mucus that he tried to spit into another
overflowing wastebasket. It hit the floor.
    And Martin thought he’d be able to rehabilitate this pig?
Fat chance.
    All the coughing woke the girl. She opened bleary eyes
smeared with make-up. “Shut the fuck up,” she croaked.
    Staggering to his feet, Robbie shuffled to the bathroom
where he hacked out more phlegm.
    Robert wished Amanda could see what all her coddling and
pampering had done. For as far back as Robert could remember, she’d let Robbie
get away with—he almost thought murder, but thank goodness the other kid hadn’t
died.
    When was that?