The Legend of Joel Riggins part 1: Thursday Morning Coming Down
by Daniel Beadle - Tuesday, August 21, 2007
It’s a sunny morning in late August. The loud bird chirping that announces the new day is slowly dying out to the sounds of garbage men and other early risers. Suburbanites are making coffee and watching the Today Show through crusty eyes. But on Park Street, in a two-story house with a white picket fence, and a flower garden creeping up the sides, Joel Riggins is nursing a different kind of sluggishness. The veil of blackout is being lifted, and while the night before was foggy, and plausibly deniable, the morning after is as clear as an Albino’s veiny skin.The alarm clock clicks over from 6:59 to 7:00 as the radio turns on: “…and the Sox lose again…”
In the adjacent bed, Joel’s left eye snaps open. It is accentuated with eye crust and is thoroughly bloodshot. It looks around the room cautiously, recognizing the room as feminine but not familiar. The spent condom sticking to the pink carpet catches his attention, and his eye widens in fear. A feminine hand comes down to stroke his five-o’clock shadow. An engagement ring accents the ring finger.
Joel leaps up and turns around. He’s wearing nothing but navy blue boxer shorts and has very clearly defined tan lines.
The girl is plump, and has acne scars beneath her smeared make-up. Her voice has the grating sound of phlegm coinciding with her every word: “What’s wrong, Joel?”
Joel backs to the door, grasping for his T-shirt and pants. “Look… umm…” He looks around the room and sees a name plaque that reads JENNIFER BUCKLEY. “…Jennifer… It’s not that last night wasn’t special…”
A motherly voice from downstairs yells up. “Honey, are you up? We need to hurry or we’ll be late for the ceremony.”
Joel repeats the word to himself. “…Ceremony?”
Jennifer rolls her eyes with the kind of sluggish sass that you’d expect from a fat chick. “Yeah… I probably shoulda told you…”
Joel walks over to the window. “Aw, no, don’t worry about it. Look, uh, I’m just gonna, y’know, take off. Get out of your hair. But hey,” He opens the window. “Look me up next time you’re ahh…” He quickly loses interest in the conversation as he looks out the window at the long drop. “…Skinnier.”
Jennifer gives him a scowl as a fist bangs on the outside of the door. A man’s voice comes booming in from outside. “Pumpkin, is there someone in there? I’m hearing voices.”
Joel has one leg out the window. He is now wearing his T-shirt and boxers, but his pants are in his hand. Jennifer’s father, a man in his early fifties, enters the room abruptly and stares at Joel. His expression instantly changes from confusion to rage. “What the hell?!”
Joel leaps out the window as the father lunges toward him. The window falls shut and catches the cuff of Joel’s pants. Joel dangles from the opposite pant leg. He looks up to see the crotch rip. He falls two stories into the bushes below.
Joel snatches up his cell phone and his brown leather wallet, as his Shaw's value club card flips into the dirt, unnoticed. Joel springs up and dashes across the lawn, through the sprinklers and the muddy grass.
The front door opens, Mr. Buckley runs into the lawn shouting and waving his arms frantically. “You asshole! It’s her wedding day!”
NEXT: ENTER: DONNIE SAVIA
