The Marred Existence of Fitzgerald Eisenhower

This is another story I wrote for my "Parameters Club". I have to admit that this one was difficult for me to write but easy to visualize in my head. Enjoy!

Parameters (given to me by Donald)
* your character is a schlub (definition: Unkempt in appearance, either due to lack of effort or lack of awareness. The opposite of metrosexual)
* inherits money but does not want it
* witnesses a murder

The Marred Existence of Fitzgerald Eisenhower (23 May 2010)

Fitzgerald Eisenhower’s walk to the liquor store was an actual combined distance of three blocks but it felt, to him, like ten blocks as indicated by his sweaty shirt and labored, open-mouthed breathing. It was the middle of July and the sun was especially cruel to Fitzgerald’s inherent girth. His feet shuffled on the sidewalk as his arms swung like pendulums at his sides and his head, held straight by the pillow of his double chin, focused on his goal of the day: to buy his supply of Red Bull and Hostess Ding-Dongs.
The cigarette and liquor ads that were plastered on the windows of The Booze Bin gave no sign as to what was inside. Every inch of the storefront was taken up by either a couple laughing enjoying their Newports or a beer bottle surrounded by a block of ice. Fitzgerald shuffled underneath the shade of the building and leaned against the glass. He pulled at the collar of his damp t-shirt and cooled himself off by jerking it, pushing air toward his face. He sighed. It felt good but not good enough. He grunted and pushed himself toward the door. A loud chime of a high and low note heralded his entrance into The Booze Bin.
“There he is!” Ray, a middle-aged look-alike of the Lucky Charms leprechaun with a Brooklyn accent, hollered from behind the counter, “How’s our Fitzy?”
Fitzgerald shrugged his broad shoulders and sighed, “Same day, same shit, Ray.”
“Ay, don’t be negative. Today’s a wonderful day! The sun is out. The ladies are out in their cut-offs and most important, the booze is cold!”
“I guess,” Fitzgerald said, lumbering down the snack cake aisle, “Just coming to get my usual.”
“Man, that’s the third time this week. You got yourself a craving, huh?”
Fitzgerald grunted in reply as he filled his arms with the remaining 12-packs of Ding-Dongs from the shelf, a total of six white and blue boxes. He carried them to the counter and unloaded them in front of Ray. Ray folded his arms across his chest, amazed at the tower of chocolate covered, cream-filled cake in front of him. Fitzgerald shuffled to the glass-front coolers and pulled out five of the 4-packs of Red Bull, the elixir of make-believe crack addicts. They were expensive at the Booze Bin, almost $10 per pack.
“Fitzy, Jesus Christ, are you asking for a heart attack” Ray said as he started to ring up the items and put them into bags.
“No, like you said I have a craving,” he replied, trying to crack a smile.
“Ay, don’t humor me, man. Anyway, some of my friends and I are going down to Chickie Donahue’s for some beers. You wanna join?”
Fitzgerald looked away and uttered, “Nah. Maybe. I dunno?”
“Well, all right, let me at least get your number in case you change your mind,”
Ray pushed a piece of paper and small pen across the counter. Fitzgerald scribbled his number down.
“You’re good at chicken scratch!” Ray said, looking at the piece of paper.
He shrugged his shoulders and hesitantly piled the items into four separate bags, all double-bagged. Fitzgerald placed two bills on the counter.
“Keep the change,” he said as he grabbed the bags and shuffled as quickly as he could toward the door.
“Wait a minute!” Ray called out to him.
His cry went unheeded as Fitzgerald was already out the door in a bundle of sweat and heavy breathing.

After 20 minutes of arduous dropping and lifting of the plastic bags so he could catch his breath, Fitzgerald came upon his destination: Sunny Towers. The Sunny Towers apartment building did not look like a tower nor was it sunny. The squat, square white building’s paint- was peeling on the outside, which showed the crumbling concrete underneath, and the palm trees near the gate were so withered that their trunks were folded over. After struggling with his keys, he entered through the rusting front gate, crossed the courtyard littered with rocks and into his ground floor studio apartment.
“I’m home,” he whispered to himself as he unburdened the bags onto the floor near the door.
His apartment was sparse with only a recliner, a large coffee table and a television in one corner and a fold-out couch, sheets disheveled, in the opposite corner. He lumbered into his kitchen and parted the pile of grimy, food-smeared dishes to get to the faucet to wash his hands and splash his face cool.
“Lunchtime,” he uttered as he turned around to make his way back to the front room.
He pulled the bags closer to him and collapsed onto the recliner. The chair creaked loudly and crackled as it bent to his girth. He popped open his first can of Red Bull and tore into the topmost box of Ding-Dongs, grabbed three of them and placed them on his lap. His sausage fingers unraveled the aluminum wrapping of his sacred treat then he jammed the cake into his mouth. He picked up the TV remote from beneath several envelopes on the table marked “Only for Addressee” or “To Be Opened by Addressee” in bold, red letters. He turned on the TV and pulled from the pile.
“From Wentworth & Williams,” Fitzgerald read quietly off a thin, beige envelope, “Chicago, Illinois.”
He began to shake either from the knowledge of what was inside or from his oral injection of sugar and Taurine. He slipped his finger underneath the flap and ripped along the top of the envelope. It was another letter from Luther Wentworth, Esquire, who was his mother’s lawyer. His eyes looked the seal at the top of it, two hands in a seemingly firm handshake and then down to the body:

To Mr. Fitzgerald Eisenhower,

I attempted several times to contact you regarding the estate of your mother, Jeanne L. Eisenhower-Jeffries. Ms. Eisenhower-Jeffries expressed verbally and on binding agreement, before the event of her death, to have you, Fitzgerald, receive monetary compensation throughout the rest of your adult life. Therefore, in accordance with her wishes and last testament, I have enclosed a check for the amount due to you from her estate, in which you are sole heir and lone executor. Please contact me at the number on the business card enclosed. Your correspondence to this matter is of the utmost importance and needs your immediate attention.

Sincerely,
Luther B. Wentworth, Esq.

Fitzgerald squeezed his eyes tightly shut as he turned to the enclosed check. He opened them quickly and stared at the check hypnotically. The amount was a larger sum than the previous one that he opened from the coffee table pile and less yellowed in the corners. A knot started to rise from his belly and into his chest, a feeling he felt before when he thought of his mother. He looked down at the letter and check again. Chocolate from a Ding-Dong was smeared on parts of the letter as if he was inadvertently trying to cross out the lawyer’s words. The knot rose into his neck becoming a lump and he began to sob. He did not want to remember. He did not want to flood his mind with those thoughts again. His hands crumpled the two pieces of paper tightly until they were almost pulverized inside his fists and threw it in front of the TV.
He grabbed at another box of Ding Dongs and popped open a fresh Red Bull. As tears poured from his red-rimmed eyes, Fitzgerald inhaled the three snack cakes and quickly sucked down the Red Bull. His heart started to beat faster and his fingertips began to numb. He had to replace those memories by filling the void with his favorite foods. The room began to swirl around him as he leaned back in his recliner and closed his eyes. He was transported to that day.

Fitzgerald, chubby and 10 years old came home from boarding school for summer vacation to find his mother sunbathing in the nude in the rear garden of her expansive vacation home in Florida. She was 18 years old when she had him and her body was still at the pinnacle of perfection at 28. Her sandy brown hair glistened in the bright sun in a tight bun as she lied face down on a large beach blanket. Her tanned body lean and freckled. When his shadow hovered over her, she turned quickly and screamed, “What the hell! Get out of my light!”
Her powerful screech pushed him backwards and he stumbled, landing on his back. His mother quickly stood above him, her body wrapped in the blanket and said, “Sorry, sweetie. You startled me.”
She knelt down and rubbed his shoulders then pulled him up.
“Welcome home,” she cooed and gave him a peck on the cheek, “Give your mother a hug.”
Fitzgerald smiled and wrapped his arms around her neck. She had a faint scent of coconut sunscreen on her shoulders. He pulled away to look at her. His eyes went, intuitively, to her face. Once again, as with all his summer visits, there they were: the bruises hidden underneath thick face powder. The swelling near her eyes were almost unnoticeable but he knew how to scout these things out. His lips tightened into a frown and his brow became knitted. Then he noticed his mother was smiling.
“I’m fine, my darling,” she said softly, “Nothing I can’t handle.”
She took his hand and touched the top of his head tenderly. They walked back into the house and to the kitchen where his step-father, Theo Jeffries sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper.
“I see you have returned, Fitzgerald for the summer,” Theo said from behind the newspaper in his deep baritone voice.
His mother nudged Fitzgerald’s arm.
“Yes, sir. For the summer,” he replied, pushing the lump in his throat down.
Theo pulled the newspaper down revealing his craggy face and penetrating hazel eyes. Fitzgerald noticed three long scabs running from his ear to the corner of his mouth. He could not help but stare. Theo’s face twisted into a mask of annoyance.
“What are you looking at, boy?” he bellowed as he stood up.
“Theo! He just came home. He hasn’t seen you in awhile,” his mother said, planting her tiny frame in front of her son.
Theo threw the newspaper onto the table and started to make his way toward them. Fitzgerald started to cower. He knew what was coming. He grabbed at his mother’s blanket. He towered over the boy and his mother as he put his huge, banana-like mitts on his waist.
“Jeanne, get out of the way,” he said under his breath, “I need to teach your fatso kid not to be rude.”
“Theo, stay away from him!” she screamed, pushing Fitzgerald behind her.
“You damn whore! Get out of the way and put on some clothes!”
Theo’s brick-like fist flew into the side of her face. She collapsed onto her side and quickly stood up. She stood in front of him again, her tight bun unraveling and spit blood from her mouth into his face. Fitzgerald fell onto the floor and scrambled to the nearest wall. He put his hands to his face sobbing uncontrollably.
“I dare you to hit me again, you coward!” she screamed, blood seeping from her lower lip.
His fist flew into her stomach. She folded over and landed on her knees. Her blanket, which hid her decency, fell off her body.
“Look at her, Fitzgerald! Look at the whore that is your mother,” Theo said as he grasped her hair and pushed her head onto the cold kitchen tile.
He walked over to the boy and chuckled deeply, yanking his hands from his face.
“Yeah, cry, you goddamn brat,” he whispered, “I don’t give two shits. I’m the man of the house now. Your moth----…”
Suddenly, Theo’s eyes rolled back into his head and his mouth drooped as he bent forward into the boy’s lap. The thick stainless steel blade of a meat clever was wedged into the back of Theo’s neck. A dark river of blood poured from the fresh wound. Fitzgerald looked up, his face splattered with his stepfather’s life fluid, to see his mother, naked, shaking and smiling.


Fitzgerald awoke from his dream-like hypnosis to the phone ringing. He shook his head clear and wobbled over to the kitchen to grab the call.
“Yeah?” he said meekly into the receiver.
“Ay, Fitzy, It’s Ray from the shop. How are you doing?”
“Okay.”
“Say, I’m calling to let you know that you gave me $200 to pay for your treats and drinks.”
Fitzgerald grunted in reply.
“Well, I have a shitload of bills to give back to you.”
He took a deep breath and said, “No thanks, keep the change”