Solo Story #2 - Caring For the Plant (and Promising to the Plant That You Won't Roll It Like Weed)

The sun was meant to please the mysterious plant, if there were any means of pleasing it, but Suharto found himself trying to indulging in the glow as well. It was rough going. He had a day off, but his truck was still busted. A sunny day, but he was miserable.

The ropy man leaned through the open window, his elbows on the sill, a cigarette in one hand. Suharto blew smoke into the breeze, attempting to make rings and figures, but failing for the general numbness in his mouth. His other hand, lightly gripping the neck of a fine amber elixir, explained his difficultly.

"Is smoke bad for plants?" the man wondered aloud. The window was wide open, so he thought the wind would be able to take away most of the smell, but it seemed to be blowing even more of it into the house. Uneasily, he looked at the vibrant, bizarre plant on the table behind him. It sat downwind from the smoke.

Suharto grunted. "Whatever. I ain't the kind to live on these things." He snubbed out a half-done cigarette in a bright red ashtray, and pushed the tray and lingering smell of tobacco away from him. When it started to drive him too crazy, he found that the smell of whiskey easily overcame the smoke. When he was done with a long go at the bottle, he set the dark glass back on the windowsill and watched.

His twitchy hands found a length of newspaper before long, first crumpling it, then twisting it up so tightly that it felt like a piece of twine. Suharto did this to about ten long bits of paper, then gave up and swept them all in the trash. He glanced to the cabbage, which seemed darker for a moment, if only because of a passing cloud.

"Hey, don't worry, I ain't going to do the same to you," Suharto said to the plant. He twisted away from the window and looked down at the plant, and, with a few fingers, stroked the cabbage upon one of its wide leaves. "I don't reckon that your leaves burn good enough to even try, and everyone says I'm as stupid and desperate as they come."

He stared at the unchanging plant for a few moments more, then turned and sunk most of his weight on his elbows, slouching and leaning a little out the window. Shadows passed over the sun, allowing him a clearer sight of the views past the apartment parking lots - the silvered buildings of the city, a distant mountain, a squadron of birds flying in the high sky. Then, he looked down at the bottle in his hands.

Something about the alcohol suddenly, deeply disgusted Suharto. He growled and lifted his arm sharply, though he stopped himself before he could carry through with the impulse to chuck the damned thing into the parking lot. Instead, he wound the cap back on the bottle and set it on on the counter next to him, label turned away. His flare of anger passed on like a passing dust devil, and left him with that empty feeling that overcame him more often these days than not.

"Television," Suharto decided out loud. "I'll learn myself how to cook pancakes. Or do crown molding. Or, I dunno, be a supermodel. I'll get you a diamond-studded pot or something, cabbage."

He quite nearly just walked away from the cabbage, but paused when he looked at the open window, felt the chilled breeze. No need in giving that plant a cold, he reckoned. Suharto slammed down the window, and lifted up the hefty cabbage so he could put it back in the sitting room. He thought, for the briefest of moments, that the cabbage rocked in his hands...out in one direction, like a little kick. But when Suharto nearly tripped over some spent bottles of beer in his path, he put the movement out of his head, and thought only of settling down for some good ol' brainrot.