Husk

Rex woke as he always did. There was no zest propelling him and his throat was parched.  Though to be fair, the dry mouth was more ethereal these days, a ghost. Haunting him and reminding him of when everything changed.

He’d start off the day, the same as all the others, thinking of the good times.

Rex made his way downstairs. He recalled how in times long gone by, he’d make a pot of coffee, drink half of it between he and Margot, and then throw the rest away. Afterwards, he would rinse out his coffee mug and not even blink at the fact that he was letting more clean water trickle down his drain then some people in other parts of the world would get in a week.

Today, like every other day, it was prepackaged Gatorade, the lemon lime kind. It seemed like that’s all those good sams ever sent in their care packages anyway. How come never grape or Strawberry, would that kill ya for Christ’s sake?

Still, he cracked open a bottle and slugged it down. To Rex it tasted bitter.

He leaned against the counter. From his point of view he could make out what had once been a flourishing testament to human ingenuity.  Miraculous, a small paradise in the middle of the desert. Now it was dirt, barren. Even the brown grass had disintegrated long ago.

An attractive pool with a sun faded blue slide, made to look like a mountainous water fall sat dormant in the middle of the yard. Looking at it now it was hard to tell if it had ever been touched by water at all. Now it was just big, gray and empty. Rex felt he could relate.

Entering the garage he approached a plastic storage tub that was nearly as tall as he. It was a translucent white and about a third of the way filled with liquid. A decal affixed to its front displayed a faucet with a glass underneath it, covered by a large red slash enclosed in a circle.

 Next to it was a metal pail, Rex filled it carefully. He went about halfway before testing the bucket’s heft with his hands. He shrugged, Less is more.

Marching back inside, he headed upstairs.

There was a double sink in the bathroom he entered, though Rex didn’t fuss with the knobs. He sat the bucket on the counter top. Rex then deliberately reached for his toothbrush nearby. Peering down into the bucket, he gingerly let the bristles touch the surface of the water. Toothpaste was next.

While Rex brushed, he reminisced again. Margot.

Her memory came and went like a familiar name overheard in a conversation within him. A huge part of him wanted, needed to remember but another part felt only regret and guilt. I should’ve went. It should’ve been me out on the road.

Consciously, Rex didn’t want to think about the murder, the people that had stopped her, or the water they took. Subconsciously though, it was always there, just below the surface of this husk he now called a life.

This of course wasn’t the first time Rex had relived this memory, nor would it be the last. The only finality related to it, was the fact that he no longer cried while visiting it, he simply couldn’t afford the tears.

Without rinsing, Rex spit and plucked a limp washrag from between the two sinks. He dunked it in the water and after it was saturated reached for a sliver of soap on dish. Efficiency described the way he washed; light soap, quick passes only to the chest, navel and underarms. He rang out the rag, gave himself a quick rinse in each area, and then set it aside.

Full bath would have to wait until the first of the month. The tank in the garage was low. He left the bucket on the counter to be used in case he wanted to freshen up in the evening. Lead by example.

Rex dressed for the office; painter’s pants and long sleeved tee, and broad brimmed hat.  He hoped he wouldn’t have to go out in the field today. Desk work was boring but the outdoors meant more heat, and the need for more water. As long as everybody showed up. It was such a weak crew now. Though how could anyone be strong knowing they were only one H₂0 binge away from death or dishonor?

In the downstairs mirror, Rex fished in a ceramic bowl for his keys.

Memories of the Minnesota fishing trips of his youth called for him. These at least were old, tired memories, fatigued from years of use, and he was able to turn a corner in his own head and evade them. 

Instead, Rex pulled another object from the ceramic bowl by the door. Deftly, he held the object up, clipping it to his shirtfront.

It was a laminated card bearing Rex’s face in a small square.