The Musty Room

   It's starting to smell bad in here. The fan has a loose blade, and it wobbles too much to use. My heater is on the fritz and my gas is cut off until I can find a job. I might have to let the plasma center farm my blood; I can make $160 a month. Most of that money goes to my landlord, and the rest goes toward cat litter and food. I eat at least once a day, and so does my cat. I mostly eat from cans because I have a gas stove and no gas. I want to save up for a microwave.
   I have to find a way to pay some on the power bill by Monday. I would ask my mom or maybe one of my sisters or uncles, but they don't really like me around very much. Money is a touchy subject with them because I have needed help more times than them. Back when I had a job as a form carpenter's apprentice, I had credit. I bought a few things with my credit, but after I lost my job everything else was lost. Now I have bad credit, and no one to help me while I am down. I tried for unemployment, but I technically quit, and the carpenter denied me of what would have been my life blood for 99 weeks with a simple check mark and a signature. He saw me at the dollar store the other day and asked me how I had the nerve to even think about unemployment. It made me glad that I got away from him. I wouldn't have made too much more from unemployment than I do from giving the yellowish part of my blood to the plasma industry. The only problem with the plasma thing is that it makes me so tired.
   Today, I am looking around my room wondering what will happen next. My window is painted shut, so there is no air flow. The hotter it gets outside, the more my room smells. I have three pairs of pants, two of them are stained with epoxy, and the other pair don't really fit me any more. It's hard to believe how much weight I have lost. It makes me laugh to think of all the money people spend on diets when all you have to do is be poor to loose weight.
   My t-shirt is in pretty good shape because I wear a flannel jacket over it most of the time. I have always worn a jacket whether it is cold or hot. I guess I was that kid that never took his jacket off. I have an embarrassing, misplaced bone on my right side, near my rib cage, and it is rather unsightly. I have been the object of many a bully's anger for it. It doesn't limit me physically but I feel like a freak every time my arm brushes against it. Actually, I am sort of like the dog who thinks his name is "Dammit", but my name has always been "freak".
   I would rather not tell my name. My name was given to me from people who I do not know. They wound up being the ones' that fed and clothed me and not much else in the way of relationship. I tried to tell them about the fights I lost, you know, the unwinnable kind where adrenaline gets the better of two or three other boys. They liked to kick my "crazy bone". My name is lost.
   I have ten minutes until I head to the "PC"; it opens at 7:30 sharp. I'm glad I only have to get up early twice a week, especially in the winter. I feel sorry for people that have to work out in the weather every day. I would rather have a desk job with my own office. That will never happen though; I didn't quite make it through high school. I found it boring, and by the time it was up to me I couldn't take the abuse any more.
   I know a preacher from a church down the street. He comes to visit me once a week and we talk about goals. I tell him the same thing every time. I can't afford any goals. I can't even pay rent, much less pay for some imaginary thing that would somehow make my life better. He insists that I think about going to his church so I can hear the gospel message and meet elders that can guide me somewhere. I can't make sense of it though, so I think I will keep spending Sunday at home in my musty room.