Little old ladies wonder the
vast street shuttling floor lamps, empty picture frames, and souvenir tchochkes
to their cars lining the road.
There’s a man bartering unnecessarily over a $2 pan in the garage. The sleeves on his flannel shirt are at
least three inches too short. In
the living room, a professional-looking couple evaluate an end table. I’d love to tell them what my cousin
did on that piece of furniture about ten years ago, but I don’t. I wave to my uncle. He’s eating a half-wrapped fast food
burger. “Hey, here’s da
paperwork. That should be ‘bout
it.” I hand over the documents and
he scrutinizes them.
After Grandpa died,
relatives swarmed and started to bicker.
I’ve been couch surfing since my uncle moved in “to take care of
things.” When I moved out, he
oversaw my packing to make sure I didn’t take anything of value. The whole bunch of them act like
Grandpa was a noble member of the ancient landed gentry or something. I’ve seen the finances and no one seems
to believe me when I tell them “there’s nothin’ ta fight over.” That just leads to my aunts accusing me
of stealing some mythical treasure chest secretly buried under one of the rose
bushes. So, when everyone moved
in, I moved out.
“Where ya off ta now?” My uncle crams the last quarter of the
burger in his mouth. The grease on
his fingers notarize each document in his filthy hands.
“Uh, not sure yet. But, I’ll give ya my contact info when
I know.”
“Why?”
“Mmm…” Good question. “Just in case, I guess.” No longer interested in our
conversation, he starts harassing some woman who is apparently touching the
cheap flatware too much.
I take one last look around
the house. How many nights did I
fall asleep on the floor gorging on popcorn drenched in butter? We’d watch old Westerns where “good”
always triumphs. A grizzled man
lugs up a toolbox that’s been in our family for five generations. It’s labeled “$3.” Most of the rooms are bare and echo
with the slightest sound. The
vultures circle around the last bits of the estate. They tear and gnaw at anything of perceived value. It is what it is.
Exiting the propped open
front door, I park my ass on the stoop.
I’m not quite ready to leave.
The intensity of the sun beats down with a blistering heat. It’s been a long, dry summer that has
scorched this once beloved lawn.
“1… 2… 3… Rrr!” Down the
street, a couple of scrawny kids heave my old amp into the back of their
pick-up. I stand up almost in
protest. They toss my guitar into
the back and take off. I’m
done. The golden grass of the
subdivision crunches under my feet as I lazily drag my shoes to Main Street.
Sometimes, I feel like I’m
meant for something if only I
knew what. The speed limit is only
35 mph, but I watch as almost every vehicle does at least 50 on this country
highway converted into a sprawl collector road. What are they in a hurry to get to? I have no place to go. I take a seat on the curb at the gas
station on the corner of Brown Boulevard.
A grey box covered in beer and cigarette ads. Again, I’m asking, “what should I do?”
“Nice shirt,” says a young
man in a hoodie and punk band t-shirt.
He packs his cigarettes as he rests against his rented moving
truck. “Didja make it yerself?”
“Yeah. Thanks!” He doesn’t seem eager to get back on the road. “Where ya movin’ ta?”
“Ta Portland. My friends say they can get me a job
out there. Had nothin’ else goin’
on, so I boxed up everythin’ ‘nd took off. Whadda ‘bout you?
Goin’ somewhere?”
“Umm… Yeah.”
“Cool.” He reaches through the moving truck window
and grabs an energy drink. “Where
ya headin’?”
“Haven’t figured that out
yet.”
“Really? Well, if ya wanna ride with me, ya
can. I could use da company ‘nd ya
can get out at any time. Gonna
warn ya: this piece of shit doesn’t have a/c or a radio.” He kicks the tire in contempt.
“Thanks, but I can’t afford
da gas ‘nd all.”
“No worries. I got that covered awready.”
“Are ya sure?” He nods. “Okay…” I brush myself off and climb into the passenger seat
littered with all kinds of junk food.
“Let’s go!” and he peels out
(as much as he can in this clunker) onto Main Street. He cuts off a couple of cars. “Don’t worry, I got da insurance on it.” Black smoke billows out of the exhaust
pipe as the engine trembles. I
keep my eyes on the endless prairie ahead.
Thank you for reading and your support. This would not be possible without you!
If you have any submissions, questions, comments, suggestions, or anything else, please feel free to contact me at: LukeArchaism@gmail.com
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