Belts

Brian Haner Jr. was tired. The type of tired where the bone marrow protests when you blink. The type of tired that is so utterly all consuming that your brain is fighting a civil war to continue the involuntary behaviors, like breathing and pumping blood through the body. Brian thought it was ridiculous that he was consciously reminding himself to inhale and exhale as he trudged up the walkway of his house. It was no more than ten feet from the edge of his driveway to his front door, but he had already journeyed thirty feet up his driveway from the sidewalk where the tour bus had dropped him off. Ten more feet seemed like an eight-mile-marathon. He had the passing idea to lay his suitcases out like a cot and sleep in front of his house. However, his king sized mattress and cool cotton sheets were calling to him from the second floor of his home and he knew waking up in the ninety-degree, California dry heat would only make him angry. Brian felt he could kiss the person who thought of central air conditioning.

Inhaling as deeply as his aching chest muscles would allow, Brian took the four steps up to his porch. He dropped his bags bouncing slightly as their weight made the wood planks of the porch bounce. He dropped his head against the cold, purple-painted door as a groan of relief slipped past his lips. All he had to do was get inside, crawl up the stairs-- because crawling would not be below his dignity as long as the front door was shut and locked since his stairs weren’t visible from the front windows-- and drag himself to his bedroom and bed.

His first problem was getting his keys. He had stashed them in his backpack for safekeeping knowing he would lose them if he attached them to one of his belt loops. Jimmy had a penchant for randomly tackling him and everything in Brian’s pockets and haphazardly attached to his body would be scattered to the four winds. He’d lost count of the number of cell phones that had been broken this way.

Eyes closed, he dropped his shoulder slightly, grunting as the shoulder strap slipped down to his hand. He did everything by feel as he searched the bag for his keys, pausing momentarily when his hand passed over something that had the distinct shape of a penis. Zacky, that bastard. Zack had threatened to buy someone a fake penis before the tour was out and apparently chose Brian as the lucky recipient. Finally, his fingers met the ridged metal of his keys and he half-smiled in triumph. His face muscles objected to even that much movement exhausted from the millions of smirks they had formed over the nine-month tour the band had just finished. He pulled the keys out wincing at the jangle they made when smacking together. The sound created an instant headache.

Unlocking the door, an action that should have take no more than a few fluid seconds, took Brian minutes. Each step was a chore for him. His arm didn’t want to raise the key and his fingers didn’t want to grip the key to push it into the lock. He had to pause once the key was inserted in the bolt because his fingers cramped. Playing guitar like he did for a living was not easy on the hands so using his left hand to turn the key wasn’t a good idea. That meant he had to force his right arm up to unlock the door. Fleetingly, he hoped his band mates had left already and weren’t watching from the bus windows mocking him. Then he remembered that they had seen him in worse states and he had just as much if not more dirt on them.

Brian felt like cheering when he heard the lock click open. However, his fatigued body would only settle for a long intake of air and a squinting of his weary eyes. Letting his hand drop from the key to the doorknob, he concentrated on twisting it. He used his body weight to push the door open, stumbling over the doorjamb. Brian caught himself on the foyer table before looking back at his bags piled by the door. Sighing, he staggered back to the door and weakly dragged his backs inside. He pulled them on so far as to get them out of the path of the door and left them where they fell with a vow to pick them up once he was well rested.

Turning, Brian’s eyes lit up when he say his stairs, the second phase of his plan for sleep. Starting on his way to the stairs, he took in the familiar scent of his house. Marlboro cigarettes, Lacoste Essential Sport cologne, and the apple pie candle he usually had burning when he was home. As he took in this heady smell, another more pungent odor accosted his nostrils. Sour food. The good sense of smell that was really more of a curse than a gift told him that he’d left milk, pizza and bread in his house while he was away. Brian groaned. He knew he couldn’t just leave it until he had taken his nap. It would keep him awake, slowly torturing him, until he tossed the food and threw the garbage bag out the back door.

Walking in to the kitchen he spotted Pinkly’s food and water dishes. He’d never been more thankful for his little sister wanting to care for his beloved dog than he was at that moment. Brian didn’t have the energy even to pretend to bend over and pick up the dishes let alone dig out the containers of premium dog food he fed his pet.

Grudgingly making his way toward his refrigerator, Brian started thinking of his bed. He could almost feel the cotton soothing his aching muscles and the mattress rising up slightly to surround his body. The sweet smell of pickles pulled him from his daydream and brought his attention to the bag of green fuzz sitting on his counter. He was sure it was a loaf of bread at some point, unsure as to when during the nine months it was sprouted another life form. He half gagged, half choked as he edged closer to the thing resting on his counter. Carefully, Brian picked up the bag with his thumb and forefinger and held it a full arms length from his body as he carried it to the trash can. Flipping the lid, he dropped the sinus-offending organism into the garbage. He let the lid snap shut as he turned to the fridge. The scent of stale pizza and curdled milk seeped from it, which worried him slightly because there was an airtight seal between the metal side of the fridge and the door. If these disgusting smells were leaking out, Brian didn’t want to know how much worse it would be when he opened the door.

He decided to get it over with quick, like telling your mom you broke her prized crystal piece. The one you thought was a deer but kind of looked like a messed up duck, but either way you knew it was ugly and never understood why she loved it so much. So when you broke it playing football in the house with your brother, you just told her to get it over with not thinking she would burst into tears and ground you for two months and work to pay off the price-- a disgusting 1,500 dollars for some ugly piece of crystal. Brian would never understand why Jan had flipped out over that thing, which he later learned was a rare Swarovski, limited edition otter. To him it would always be that eyesore piece of crystal he was glad he broke.

Laying hand on the door handle, he grunted pulling it open. The odor instantly made his eyes water and a small amount of bile rose to that back of his throat. He grabbed the pizza box first, deeming it the easiest to get rid of. He held his breath as he inched back to the trash can and feebly shoved the box down inside. With an almost inaudible whimper, he moved back to the refrigerator. The plastic, half-empty gallon of milk was bulging on all sides. The cap looked like any pressure applied to the sides would send it flying across the room to damage whatever it met. Brian was tempted to shut the fridge and pretend it didn’t exist, but he knew he couldn’t. It took him a full ten minutes to build the courage to grab the jug. He looked between the bloated plastic and the sink a few times before deciding just to chuck the whole thing in the trash. It had to go out anyway and the thought of having to stand over the sink while the container emptied made a tiny bit of puke hit the top of his esophagus.

Once everything was bagged and he had gotten it out of the can, he carefully hauled it to the back door. He had to use his foot to help him left it across the threshold, which was pathetic since there were only three things in the bag. Satisfied, he leaned against the door to shut it and drew his hand up the painted wood to lock it. Brian rested there for a few moments catching his breath before haltingly making his way toward the stairs. He dropped to his hands and knees two feet from the bottom step and his feet began to pound lightly. It took him a full twenty minutes to crawl up his carpeted stairs because he would stop after every step he’d managed to pull his torso over to steady his breathing. It was times like this when he contemplated quitting smoking.

At the top of the steps, he stopped for another fifteen minutes, arms by his sides and face pressed into the carpet, to rest. He was determined to make it to his bed, but a small break wouldn’t do any harm. He had to give himself a pep talk so he could half flop, half army crawl his way to his room. Brian cursed himself for choosing the bedroom at the end of the hallway. As his face was close to the carpet the whole time, he realized he needed to steam clean them. They smelt of dog, sand and sweat. He wasn’t sure how that combination came to be, but he didn’t like it.

Brian finally reached his room and his eyes immediately went to his bed. He was more than ready to flop down and pass out for a few days--because yes, it would be days that he needed to recoup. He had to use the wall to bring himself to a standing position, resting halfway to standing because it was too much physical exertion at that point. When he was standing as upright as he could get, he lumbered toward his bed and began to strip off his shirt. The intent was to sleep naked and minimize the amount of material separating him from the comfort of his cold sheets and soft comforter. He dropped his shirt to the floor, tripping over it as he crept closer to his bed. He reached down for the button of his pants growling weakling when a belt stopped him. He groaned looking down, only to realize it was one of his days where he thought of fashion over comfort and he had on three belts. With a sigh and a mild groan he said, "Bloody hell."