Disturbia (The 13th) by Tabatha Manuel

Friday, July 13, 2012 7:00 am
     
    “You got 24 hours dammit.”
     
    Sal startled from the yelling and banging on the door awoke from his deep sleep.
     
    “You hear me in there, you fucking prick,” the shouts continued. Finally, the banging stopped.  “Lazy piece of shit,” he heard mumbled through the wood door only a few feet away from his cot in his studio apartment.
     
    The sun struggled to poke its way through, but was overshadowed by the dingy paper shades taped up to the small window near his cot. The apartment was more like a six by eight cell in a prison. It was lifeless and gloomy matching what had become of Sal's life.
     
    He rubbed his forehead trying to fight the throbbing in his temples. The night before had been like many others within the past 13 months – filled with tequila, rum, topped off with a Budweiser.  Anything to help him take the edge off and go to sleep. Ever since his wife had called it quits on their marriage, kicking him out of their home in the suburbs, life just hadn't been the same.  Sure she kicked him out, but soon thereafter she found herself also homeless when the sheriffs tossed all of their belongings on the front yard in the sale. The home had been foreclosed.  Their once perfect suburban life of when he worked as a customer service manager in a food processing call center had been destroyed due to budget cuts and layoffs. His once beloved wife and most prized possession had nothing to do but be the perfect housewife and tend to his every need.  Even though, it wasn't much, his sixty-five thousand annual salary was more than enough to satisfy their comfortable, yet modest lifestyle.  With nothing to do but collect unemployment, his manhood and will to live had subdued. Drinking became his saving grace. It was his only escape. And as the days lingered with him as a drunkard mess, Susan sought her own independence and started waiting tables. And that's when she found the strength to rid her life of him. Broke and with no one to turn to, Sal began working in an auto parts factory making a measly eight dollars an hour, which could barely pay his rent in the run down building he moved to on Detroit's east-side. Oddly enough and also because of her hourly minimum wage, it wasn't too long after they split that Susan also found herself in the slum, close to where he had moved, renting a one bedroom ranch  in a neighborhood full of burned and abandoned houses. To Sal, the void of losing his wife,was unbearable. And liquor was the only way he could cope with his new found reality.
     
    He slowly sat up and rubbed his eyes. Aw another day. What bullshit awaits me today.  He reached on the floor near the right side of the cot and grabbed the remote control. Not wanting to admit it, but he was actually grateful that the landlord had thrown a fit. As annoying as it was, he served as Sal's alarm clock. One more tardy and he would get more than docked for his pay. He would actually get fired. He had only been on the job for three months. The job had come just in time too. His unemployment checks had just stopped and he was down to his last penny. 
     
    The morning news flashed across the screen.
     
    Today will be a scorcher with record breaking highs going up to 105 degrees.  The heat index will make it feel like 110. This is odd even for July in Detroit. We haven't had temperatures this hot since 1964.
     
    The screen flashed to the seven day forecast that showed after today temperatures cooling down to around the average of about 85 degrees.
     
    Great day for taking the family for a swim Mike.
     
    The camera focused on two male news anchors dressed in black suits talking. 
     
    Sure is. Everyone keep cool on this Friday the 13 th . Drink plenty of water and try to limit your physical activities until at least the sun sets.
     
    He pushed the off button cutting off the chatter between the anchors as they continued about the temperatures. It started to irritate him. He hated