THE LITTLE THINGS

by Cesar Puch

“Maybe I should kill someone.”

Connor drank the last of the orange juice, then opened the

fridge, holding the cell phone between his shoulder and ear. A

fresh carton stood on one of the door shelves. He pulled it out.

“Kill someone,” he repeated and refilled his glass.

“I’d totally do it,” she said. “I know you think I wouldn’t

but I would.”

“Uh-huh.”

He gulped the juice, left the glass on the counter and ran

upstairs into the bedroom. He took a glance at the clock on the

nightstand and saw it was getting late.

“You don’t believe me. Take that nasty old fuck who lives

next door. Remember him? He yelled at me that one time my car kept

choking? I’d bash his brains in, he wouldn’t see me coming.”

 Connor took out a blue shirt from the closet, then noticed a

brown AC/DC shirt. He thought for a moment, making up his mind.

“Old man had it coming,” he said.

“You damn right he had. You saw how disgusting he looks? I

mean, can’t he wear something decent? Maybe take a shower, too.

You saw how he reeked?”

Saw how he reeked.

Connor smiled and guessed he must have missed that one. He

went for the rock shirt.

“We’re cranky this morning, aren’t we?” he asked.

“I hate this fucking place. You know the way my mom gets up

way early in the morning and she makes all this noise ‘cause she

has this thing about sweeping. Sweeping! At seven o’ clock in the

morning. So then I can’t go back to sleep, you know I can’t go

back to sleep.”

“You need to enjoy the little things.”

“Little things. What little things?” she asked.

Connor pulled a pair of black Nike’s from the closet, slid

his feet inside.

“The little things. You know, feeling like you want more OJ

and finding a new carton in the fridge. Scrolling down the songs

on the iPod and finding just the one. Little things.”

“I don’t do little Connor.”

He rolled his eyes, changed the phone to his other hand and

headed for the bathroom.

 “I’m headed for big things. I’m getting out of this dump one

day and I’m not looking back.”

“Uh-huh. So you were saying, about the old guy?”

“Oh, right. Know what I’d do? I’d sneak into his house one

night and I’d take that hideous lamp my mom likes, the one she

brought from her trip. Isn’t that the ugliest thing you’ve ever

seen? Anyway, I’d sneak in when he’s watching TV or something and

just clunk him on the head. That should take care of him. Are you

listening, Connor?”

“Clunk him on the head with the lamp, gotcha.” He picked up

the glasses next to the sink, put them on and looked at himself in

the mirror. He took them off. Put them on.

“What about disposal,” he asked.

Silence for a second on the other end.

“Disposal…”

“Of the corpse.”

Silence.

“You need to get rid of the body.”

“Oh, right. I know that. I’m not stupid you know?”

Glasses on.

Glasses off.

Glasses on.

“I guess I could dig a hole in the back yard. Bury him

there.”

“You’d dig a hole?”

He’d like to see her pick up the shovel.

 “Yeah, I mean, you could help, right?”

Back to the bedroom. He was running late already.

“Oh, no. You know what they say, everyone buries their own.”

On the other end she cursed.

“Fine, I don’t need you. I’d just cut him in little bits,

flush him down the toilet. I don’t need your help. You’re

listening? You’re not listening. Connor!”

“Old man down the toilet. Heard ya.”

He went down the stairs, iPod in hand. On the floor, next to

the front door, lay a sports bag.

“Well, I’ll be sure to visit you in prison then.”

“Prison? Nah-ah. Not me. They’d never catch me. No one would

ever know.”

Connor walked into the dining room.

“I’d know.”

“What, so you’d rat on me?”

“I might,” Connor said. “Maybe. Maybe you don’t know me that

well.”

On the floor next to one of the chairs, a teenager stared as

Connor knelt beside him. The boy, about Connor’s age, muttered

something which got lost behind the tape that held his mouth shut.

Tears fell from his left eye. The right one remained shut and

bloody.

“You’re a piece of shit, you know that?” her voice shrilled.

Connor pulled the glasses off and set them back on the kid’s

face as neatly as he could. The boy trembled.

 “I had to visit some people.”

“Well are you coming?”

He looked at man and woman tied up in the corner. At the

little girl who sobbed next to them.

“As soon as I’m done,” Connor answered.

“Well, how long?”

Connor glanced at the sports bag behind him.

“An hour. Two at the most.”

“Ok, but don’t leave me waiting, Connor. You know I hate

waiting.”

“I know. Just think about what I said. About the little

things.”

“Just get over here, Connor.”

A click. At last.

Connor let out a sigh of relief. He got up, walked back to

the sports bag. On a little table next to the door, a photo of the

family of four sat in a silver frame. The glasses did suit the

boy. Not so good on him.

He looked at the time on the iPod.

Definitely running late. An hour tops.

He put on the ear phones then browsed for that song. He

hadn’t heard it in ages.

The little things.

He picked up the bag and walked back into the living room.