Dabs hauled the signed contract (the last page of it) to his new room. Its weight dragged his steps, aging him, forcing his thoughts back into their tomb. Wanting to hide this mess, he shoved the crumpled piece of paper under the flowered love seat, never to see the light of day. He sat down with a sigh. The apartment had everything he needed; bathroom, kitchenette and window. So where would he sleep? Behind the love seat, the wall wore a Murphy bed. Dabs moved the love seat to make room for the bed, freeing the piece of ugly to invade his peace.
He grabbed the paper and shoved it under a couch cushion, a dark place for forgotten change, dusty balls and irrevocable regrets. He then emptied his pockets. Wadded hundreds cluttered the counter. He carefully straightened each one into piles. Then he shoved each pile under the other couch cushion.
Feeling lighter he went to the window, and opened it. He braced for it to fall, but it stayed and so did he. The creek’s air fingered through his hair, caressing his mind into a thoughtless abyss. Closing his eyes, he whispered. “This is a good decision” The air pushed through his anxieties and massaged his temples, and he repeated the words in a loop. Each syllable came out faster each time until his mantra became a jingle. It had an orange and yellow, eat-your-burger-and-go beat. “This is a good de-cis-sion.” Dab bounced to his own ditty. His shoulders joined the act, as he sang it a bit louder.
“This is a good de-cis-sion! With his pockets empty, his hips caught the beat. Yes, he felt a bit silly, but this was his room, he could do what he wanted. Isn’t that what the doctor wanted! So he sang it and sang it loudly hoping he would believe it. He was turning to the beat when he saw her.
Egghead held her notebook like a shield and said,” I think my mom’s dead. Oh and you’ve got to make more chill because that crap down there is just shit!”