we are not a football team
this is a story that i wrote for my creative writing class. it's titled "is it just me, or does gary busey just look like nick nolte after a rough night at the bar?". enjoy.
“Do we have to do this now?”
“Oh, of course not, Mickey. Let me just hang around here until it’s convenient for you to talk about this. You tell me when you’re ready, and until then I’ll be barefoot and pregnant in the fucking kitchen, cleaning the goddamned stove out!”
“Jesus Christ, that’s not what I meant and you know it, Mallory.”
“Well what did you mean, then?”
“I just meant that I’ve had a rough day, and I want to be able to walk into the house and sit down for 5 minutes before you start yelling at me about something ridiculous.”
“Something ridiculous?! Every day, I have to pick up your fucking socks off the ground for you-”
“Is this about the socks? Is this whole thing about the fucking socks?! You have got to be kidding me, Mallory! I come home from work at 8 o’clock every night after sitting for twelve hours in that little fucking cubicle that’s smaller than this goddamned apartment, doing other people’s work, so that you can yell at me about the fucking socks?!”
“This is about more than the socks, Mickey! You have no respect for this house or for me. You just assume that you can throw your shit wherever you want and ‘Oh, Mallory’s gonna pick it up. I won’t even bother to throw my socks in the hamper that’s on my fucking way out the door, because Mallory is my bitch, and she’ll do whatever because I’m the man.’ Well, no fucking more, Mickey.”
“What does that even mean, ‘No fucking more’? You’re just going to up and leave me because I forget to pick my socks up off the ground? You’re going to take your pregnant ass back to fucking Ohio and live with your mother because I have bad laundry habits? Well fuck you then, Mal.”
“Well, who’s to say I won’t, Mickey? This is about more than the socks! This is about you thinking you can just walk all over me and get away with it! This is about me having enough of it! This is about Mallory not being Mickey’s little bitch servant anymore! Why can’t you just get your head around that?”
“Because you keep going on and on about my socks!”
“Jesus Christ, Mick-”
“Don’t fucking ‘Jesus Christ’ me, Mallory! I’m sick of working so fucking hard for this family and getting absolutely shit in return! Mal, I haven’t worked less than a 60 hour week in three fucking months, because I care so much about putting food on the goddamned table and keeping this piece of shit roof over our heads so that our baby doesn’t have to freeze and die in a fucking gutter! I’m not getting overtime for these double shifts I keep pulling either, sweetheart! All I want is to come home once, eat dinner together, talk about our days, make love, and go to bed happy without having to hear about the most recent way Mickey fucked up!”
“Then stop fucking up, Mick!”
“Oh, you think it’s that easy, Mal?”
“I do! I put my fucking socks in the hamper every day-”
“Oh, fuck you, Mallory! Fuck you!”
“I swear to God, Mick, you speak to me like that one more time and I am out the door with this baby that you so clearly care so much about.”
“Don’t you ever tell me that I don’t care about that baby. Ever! Do you hear me, Mallory? Who’s the one trying his damndest to provide for this child? Who’s the one working on all of his days off to build another fucking room in this shithole apartment? Which of us has gotten about a combined 12 hours of sleep in the last two weeks?”
“Does every argument we have have to end in you talking about your work schedule? I swear, every time we do this, it comes down to ‘I’m the working man, I deserve the respect’. What do I do all day, Mick? Sit back here, do my nails, watch soap operas, fuck the Super? No, Mickey! I’m up all day, cleaning this house, running errands, cooking your dinner, and dealing with being fucking pregnant! So don’t act like everyday is some fucking cakewalk for me, alright!”
“I’m not saying that you’ve got it any easier than I do, Mal. I’m just saying that I don’t come home and eat you out-”
“Oh, I know. It’s been months since the last time that’s happened.”
“Oh, that’s a new fucking low for you! That, coming from the girl who’s had the longest running headache in the history of man.”
“I’m pregnant, Mickey!”
“I’d hope so, otherwise you’re just coming up with clever ways to hide all the food you’ve been eating.”
“Oh, that is fucking it, Mickey Yemin! I’m leaving right now! I’ll send you pictures of your baby boy in a couple of months, and that’s going to be as close as you’re going to get to him as long as I’m around, do you hear me?! I can’t fucking believe I’ve wasted the last seven years of my life with a cold, selfish prick like you. You‘re the worst thing that‘s ever happened to me, Mickey. I hope you fucking die alone and dreaming about the loving family that you just lost!”
At that exact moment, a North Korean fighter pilot flying over the airspace above a small piece of land between Maryland and Virginia, dropped an atom bomb on an unsuspecting neighborhood in Washington, D.C. about eight blocks from Capitol Hill. It wasn’t a direct hit, it didn’t need to be. There were more where that came from, and they were coming soon. And by soon, I mean a couple of seconds later. It was a nuclear holocaust in the nation’s capitol. Everything within 50 miles of the district was completely eradicated. Every car wiped off the street, every building leveled, every life taken. It all happened within a split second, no one had a any time to react. The empire had fallen. Within merely a few days, the entire nation would be in a complete state of anarchy.
In that split second, between when the bomb hit, and when it took its toll, inside the eighth floor apartment of a shabby twelve story housing complex between U Street and Columbia Heights on the Metro’s green line, a twenty-six year old man named Mickey Daniel Yemin’s last thought was “Wait, Mal, I can pick up the socks!”
“Do we have to do this now?”
“Oh, of course not, Mickey. Let me just hang around here until it’s convenient for you to talk about this. You tell me when you’re ready, and until then I’ll be barefoot and pregnant in the fucking kitchen, cleaning the goddamned stove out!”
“Jesus Christ, that’s not what I meant and you know it, Mallory.”
“Well what did you mean, then?”
“I just meant that I’ve had a rough day, and I want to be able to walk into the house and sit down for 5 minutes before you start yelling at me about something ridiculous.”
“Something ridiculous?! Every day, I have to pick up your fucking socks off the ground for you-”
“Is this about the socks? Is this whole thing about the fucking socks?! You have got to be kidding me, Mallory! I come home from work at 8 o’clock every night after sitting for twelve hours in that little fucking cubicle that’s smaller than this goddamned apartment, doing other people’s work, so that you can yell at me about the fucking socks?!”
“This is about more than the socks, Mickey! You have no respect for this house or for me. You just assume that you can throw your shit wherever you want and ‘Oh, Mallory’s gonna pick it up. I won’t even bother to throw my socks in the hamper that’s on my fucking way out the door, because Mallory is my bitch, and she’ll do whatever because I’m the man.’ Well, no fucking more, Mickey.”
“What does that even mean, ‘No fucking more’? You’re just going to up and leave me because I forget to pick my socks up off the ground? You’re going to take your pregnant ass back to fucking Ohio and live with your mother because I have bad laundry habits? Well fuck you then, Mal.”
“Well, who’s to say I won’t, Mickey? This is about more than the socks! This is about you thinking you can just walk all over me and get away with it! This is about me having enough of it! This is about Mallory not being Mickey’s little bitch servant anymore! Why can’t you just get your head around that?”
“Because you keep going on and on about my socks!”
“Jesus Christ, Mick-”
“Don’t fucking ‘Jesus Christ’ me, Mallory! I’m sick of working so fucking hard for this family and getting absolutely shit in return! Mal, I haven’t worked less than a 60 hour week in three fucking months, because I care so much about putting food on the goddamned table and keeping this piece of shit roof over our heads so that our baby doesn’t have to freeze and die in a fucking gutter! I’m not getting overtime for these double shifts I keep pulling either, sweetheart! All I want is to come home once, eat dinner together, talk about our days, make love, and go to bed happy without having to hear about the most recent way Mickey fucked up!”
“Then stop fucking up, Mick!”
“Oh, you think it’s that easy, Mal?”
“I do! I put my fucking socks in the hamper every day-”
“Oh, fuck you, Mallory! Fuck you!”
“I swear to God, Mick, you speak to me like that one more time and I am out the door with this baby that you so clearly care so much about.”
“Don’t you ever tell me that I don’t care about that baby. Ever! Do you hear me, Mallory? Who’s the one trying his damndest to provide for this child? Who’s the one working on all of his days off to build another fucking room in this shithole apartment? Which of us has gotten about a combined 12 hours of sleep in the last two weeks?”
“Does every argument we have have to end in you talking about your work schedule? I swear, every time we do this, it comes down to ‘I’m the working man, I deserve the respect’. What do I do all day, Mick? Sit back here, do my nails, watch soap operas, fuck the Super? No, Mickey! I’m up all day, cleaning this house, running errands, cooking your dinner, and dealing with being fucking pregnant! So don’t act like everyday is some fucking cakewalk for me, alright!”
“I’m not saying that you’ve got it any easier than I do, Mal. I’m just saying that I don’t come home and eat you out-”
“Oh, I know. It’s been months since the last time that’s happened.”
“Oh, that’s a new fucking low for you! That, coming from the girl who’s had the longest running headache in the history of man.”
“I’m pregnant, Mickey!”
“I’d hope so, otherwise you’re just coming up with clever ways to hide all the food you’ve been eating.”
“Oh, that is fucking it, Mickey Yemin! I’m leaving right now! I’ll send you pictures of your baby boy in a couple of months, and that’s going to be as close as you’re going to get to him as long as I’m around, do you hear me?! I can’t fucking believe I’ve wasted the last seven years of my life with a cold, selfish prick like you. You‘re the worst thing that‘s ever happened to me, Mickey. I hope you fucking die alone and dreaming about the loving family that you just lost!”
At that exact moment, a North Korean fighter pilot flying over the airspace above a small piece of land between Maryland and Virginia, dropped an atom bomb on an unsuspecting neighborhood in Washington, D.C. about eight blocks from Capitol Hill. It wasn’t a direct hit, it didn’t need to be. There were more where that came from, and they were coming soon. And by soon, I mean a couple of seconds later. It was a nuclear holocaust in the nation’s capitol. Everything within 50 miles of the district was completely eradicated. Every car wiped off the street, every building leveled, every life taken. It all happened within a split second, no one had a any time to react. The empire had fallen. Within merely a few days, the entire nation would be in a complete state of anarchy.
In that split second, between when the bomb hit, and when it took its toll, inside the eighth floor apartment of a shabby twelve story housing complex between U Street and Columbia Heights on the Metro’s green line, a twenty-six year old man named Mickey Daniel Yemin’s last thought was “Wait, Mal, I can pick up the socks!”