George and the Flying Things

Even though the manager’s knocking outside the door was loud, George ignored it. He lay limp on the hot, sticky bed of the small motel room and chewed on a piece of gum. He’d had it in his mouth for so long, it was like chewing band-aids now. But he didn’t mind the aching in his jaw. George put his hand on his left cheek and stroked his stubble. He was a mess.

“Sir, we’ll call the authorities if we have to….!”

Out of the corner of his eye, George saw a brown thing scuttle across the bathroom floor. He’d always gotten along better with bugs than people.

The cockroach stopped and shook its head, “Suck it up, pansy, stop being a wuss, and talk to FEMA for some free cash. Yea, free cash.” Cockroaches have survived for thousands of years so maybe it knew what it was talking about. But, it sounded too much like advice his mother would give him and George stopped listening to his mom ages ago.

A spider on the window blinds whispered to him in a raspy voice and chuckled after it finished its proposition. George looked confused, “How would I find a gallon of yogurt, two pot bellied pigs, and a giant ball of yarn anyhow?” Arachnids were never dependable much like his father.

“You’ve left us no choice!” the manager incessantly kept knocking on the door which made George’s head hurt. “I’m calling the cops……damn hippies.”

A flying thing scouring the ceiling offered to sell him some weed but George figured he should use his last few bucks on breakfast but getting high again sure sounded tempting.

No money, no friends, no family, no home. He had gotten himself into a deep shit-hole, but he felt like this wasn’t the first time he’d had this feeling. That comforted his 27-year old mind.

The ceiling fan above him rotated slowly, hypnotizing him. “Why the hell am I here?!” he shouted to the spider, the cockroach, the flying insect, the fan, the air….no one…everyone.

New Orleans had gotten under his skin. He needed a change of scenery, new faces, sweeter air.

The spider leapt from the window blinds onto the bed sheets and tottered over to George’s ear. “In retrospect, you should be thankful that you avoided that damn hurricane. You could have been killed and what good would you be dead?”

Outside the door, the cops had arrived. “Sir, are you in there? It’s the police. Open up!”

“Well, it sure looks like he’s no good alive either. Pansy,” the cockroach was now on George’s shoulder. “Go to the Red Cross. They’ll hook ya up with plenty of goodies.”

“But you aren’t an evacuee. You’re a…a…a.. tourist, really.” The spider taunted. It started spinning a web in George’s ear.

The policemens’ voices sounded close yet far away at the same time. “On the count of three, we’re busting through this door!!”

The flying thing interjected, “New Orleans made you feel like a weirdo and what better location to move than to a city that places weirdness on a pedestal. You’ve always depended on yourself; there ain’t no point in stopping now. You don’t need no stinkin’ FEMA or nobody.”

This made the most sense to George.

As he picked up his things and quietly crawled out the bathroom window, the flying thing buzzed past his ear and whispered, “Hey, hey, dude, wana score…?”