Nobody Home

"Hello," I yell. My voice echoes from distant walls. I have the vague sense of beams, spiderwebs, and windowpanes painted black just beyond my vision. A bare light bulb swings above my reach.

"Hello! Anybody here?"

"...ere-ere-ere..."

I hear a scuff of feet, and I shade my eyes to peer into the gloom. I see a slouching figure.

"I'm here, man. I stop by now and then. Not for a while, though," Bottle Rocket says. He kicks a piece of trash on the ground, and digs his hands into his pockets. "I get this feeling sometimes, like a worm digging through the hot sponge of my brain. I can't get at him with my fingers. I pry, and all I get are greasy fingernails. Coffee wakes him up. Booze makes him rowdy. Pizza is what he begs for. Loves pizza. And after a few drinks, I can't tell him from me."

"I have a worm, too," I say. "He tells me things. He says his name is Albert."

"He rocks and rolls, man. I woke up one morning, and he was there. I screamed. I cried. I reasoned. I moaned. Then I did it some more."

"After a while, you get used to it. It's like the ringing in your ears. After a while it's the sound of baby's breath," I say.

"The fancy way of saying that is, 'naturalization.' But there is nothing natural about it," Rocket says.

"I'm hungry," I say, pawing my belly.

"Let's blow, man. I know this great burrito place. I have a fearsome hunger for some burritos. I'm going to turn my 'innie' into an 'outtie'. And I want to listen to banjo music on the way."

"Deal. You got the lights?"

"Fuck it, man. Leave 'em on, and people will think things are going down in here. In cahoots and all."

"Nobody thinks anything," I say. "Nobody comes."

But Rocket doesn't hear me. He's already out the door.