Tin.Can.Goat

I’m sitting here at the computer and I have no idea of what to write. So I am going to just start typing and see what pops out on the paper. Well, so far I know this blinking cursor is driving me nuts.

Speaking of which, well, sort of…

I wonder, where do the letters go once the cursor erases them? Does my word processor recycle them, or do they disappear?

I was thinking the other day at work about this. Maybe, I thought, maybe it’s like that Snickers commercial in which the old man consumes the worlds hunger and therefore is never satiated himself. Except in this regard, the letters drop in large quantities on the floor of a large warehouse somewhere on Earth, another planet, plane of reality, or dimension.

Maybe an old woman works there all day; an employee in a letter-recycling plant. She works assiduously sorting the letters into font sizes, colors, and types. I imagine it’s a relatively easy, yet boring, task.

She’s prudent in her task; picking up a 12-point Times New Roman capital C and carrying it to the appropriate pile. She steps lightly around the steaming piles of font excrement discharged by an amateur desktop publisher. She sighs, shakes her fist at the tenderfoot, and shuffles to the maintenance closet, picking up mop and bucket. She gathers the font, a 42-point, neon-green Comic Sans, with a Wal-mart bag-gloved around her fist. Tying a half-knot with the ears, she pitches the makeshift sling of offal to the compost pile, wiping her hands across her denimed chest and cursing between mouth-breathes.

The mop smears the sanguine bile in twisted knots. She steps back, rolling her head across her shoulders, and looks to the nearby Bissell floor scrubber. She passes over the spot until the image of the god Locution smiles unabridged from the white-tiled floor.

With a curse, she jumps back at the sound of thunder. Letters, an obtuse font, roll from the ceiling, the end-credits of a terrible B-movie party invitation. Maturating as they near, they impact the floor in a sickening heap of decayed hibiscus, hoary and bleeding.

She kicks at them and with a curse marks them a cuckold before walking away, knowing the cleaning is a non-ending task.

Then there are those fonts ensorcelled by red or black marching ants. The fonts themselves are hardly a threat, but the ants slip, cry havoc and scatter up the mountains in chaotic regiments, pillaging and ransacking. Rounding them up requires assistance and she opens the kennels releasing the shepherds to do as they will. They look to her neither for guidance, nor aid and it’s as well she needn’t offer; for they know their task and complete it dependably.

Once the ant’s high ground is deposed, she kennels the dogs and retires to the office, ready to punch her card until the next day.

My son stands behind me as I am typing. He reads through the manuscript, his arm elbowed over the top of his head, thumb poking in his ear. “What about if someone uses an eraser? Where do the words go then?”

The lady stops her hand from dropping the punch-card into the slot. She looks out across the warehouse floor as a graphite snow falls, collecting on walkways and paths. A wind blows through, banking the fresh power against the sorting piles.

She punches her card and exits the building. The leaden snow will remain through the night, she will shovel it tomorrow.

“Oh,” my son says. “That’s cool.

“Weird.”

He exits the room, closing the door behind him and I think, If I delete the words ‘my son’ from this page, does a representation of him manifest elsewhere?

[621]

I asked a friend to go to lunch with me.

“Sorry, I brought my lunch,” they said. “I’m going to save some money and eat in this week.”

“Ok, cool,” I replied. “I’m going to walk and grab something.”

“Have fun.”

Something comes up, it stalls me, and I don’t leave work for another 15 to 30 minutes.

I walk. I’m whistling a tune, enjoying myself and the crisp winter air, but it all comes to a stop as I look into a shop window and there is the friend, nibbling at a sandwich with two other work birds.

Oh well, I think. I get the hint.

Back at work, I’m sipping my coffee and munching a bagel when the phone rings. It’s the friend.

I answered. “Yeah?”

“I just got back,” friend said. “Had a meeting.”

“Ah, how was lunch?” I asked.

“Went and got a sandwich with blah-blah and so-so.”

“Yeah, I saw. I would have met you.”

“Thought you were gone.”

“I wasn’t. I thought you were eating in this week.”

“Change of heart.”

“You could have called my cell.”

“Don’t make a big deal of this.”

“Alright,” I said. “I won’t make a big deal out of you having a meeting and getting a sandwich at the same time.”

“Bitching again,” friend replied.

“If you don’t want to go to lunch with me, just say so.”

“You don’t have to go with the same person every time.”

Yep, talk to you later.” I hung up the phone.

A week later I hadn’t made contact, but that weekend the friend’s messages flew to my phone, pigeons delivering to the roost.

Received: Event tomorrow, call me back.

Missed call.

Received: Event tonight, call me back.

Received: Call me.

Received: Are you ignoring me?

Missed call.

Missed call.

Received: Don’t be a jerk.

Received: This is payback isn’t it?

Received: You’ll miss out.

Missed call.

Received: I see how it is.

The phone rang again. It buzzed in my hand, but I didn’t answer it. I wasn’t in the mood.

Maybe I should have, but to me it’s not worth it. I’m not someone’s friend of convenience, only available as the need or situation suits them.

I’m not a fool. I know what true friendship is for I’ve had the same friend for 30 years and none of the above comes between us.

Yeah, we’ve had our times and we’ve had our moment of not speaking, but only once and it was my fault. I’ll admit it, I should have laid off about the Saints beating the Vikings (No, this wasn’t in 2010).

Three days of taunting was too much. I knew I was wrong and I admitted it. I told him I was sorry and we moved on.

That’s the reason Chester and I have been friends for so long, because like me, we share the view that you treat others as you want treated.

We don’t say one thing and do another.

We don’t lie. We don’t manipulate. We don’t abdicate forgiveness after we’ve wronged. We don’t fabricate excuses when another comes seeking an apology.

That above all. For an excuse is not an apology; it’s a redirection of blame to avoid responsibility.

New friends of mine come and go, none of them understanding what true friendship means, but after 30 years with a best friend, I know what true friendship is; a friend is someone who sticks closer than a brother.

[570]

I went to a funeral today…with my mom.

An uncle of my close friend Chester died last week and today was the celebration of his life. It had it sad points as all funerals do, but being a funeral of this particular family (whom I’ve associated with in some form or another for the past 30 years) and being in Caldwell, it was…well, if I can say it, it was fun.

I showed up three minutes before start. I figured I could park and run inside before the start, but when I arrived, the lots were full and another 15 cars lined up behind mine. My mom being one of those.

I parked next to the guy with the blue tie and camouflaged jacket and baseball cap.

“This the Sox funeral?” I asked.

“Yep, gettin’ ready to start soon,” he replied, stamping out his cigarette on the church lawn.

I said my thanks and pulled down the street looking for a place to park.

I’ve been to a lot of funerals, but this was the first one with this many cars. The lots were full and both sides of the street were deadlocked for three blocks.

I’m not sure where my mom found parking, but she was waiting at the church door as I walked up.

“You look nice,” she said, licking her fingers and running them across the crown of my head.

“It’s supposed to stick up,” I replied, roughing up my hair.

“You kids are making me feel old, look at this grey here,” she said, pointing at my temples.

“Why don’t we head inside?”

I placed my hand upon the small of her back, ushering her inside.

Chester’s older brother showed us our seat. Mom stopped at the end to fill her pockets with Kleenex before following me in.

We watched as the slides on the big screen showed the uncle in various stages of his life. He hunted, he bowled, he played softball, and he loved his only daughter, the cute little brunette who sang a duet to her father.

“Was he married?” mom asked, her whisper carried over the music.

“Yes,” I replied. “Twice.”

My phone buzzed. I cursed at myself for not turning it off before and did so then.

“Oh, dammit,” mom said, reaching into her purse. “I need to turn mine off too.”

She fiddled with the outside buttons, turning the phone over and back. In the middle of the duet chorus, the Funky Band ringtone played and I snatched the phone from her hand, switching it off. People turned to stare and I shrugged, mouthing ‘I’m sorry’.

“I’ll put that in my purse,” she whispered to the lady on her right. The lady smiled and patted mom’s hand.

The duet continued, the daughter struggling to keep her composure and doing a great job.

“Was he married?” mom asked. The man in front of me turned to stare. I nodded to him.

“Yes, twice,” I whispered back.

“Is he still married?”

“Yes, I think,” I whispered. People two rows up turned to look. I smiled and nodded to my mom.

“Is that his daughter?”

“Mom, please.”

“Sorry.” She rose and moved to the end of the aisle, grabbed another pocketful of tissues and excused herself back down the aisle towards me.

“I got some for you,” she said, handing the lady on her right some tissues.

“Thank you,” the woman replied, dabbing her eyes and blowing rough into the tissue.

The girls finished the duet and walked from the stage, the daughter shook as her cousin held her about the shoulders.

“Which one?” mom asked.

“Mom!” I whispered, furrowing my brow.

Friends of the uncle stood and gave recounts of his life and two nieces sang the Lord’s Prayer.

“Goes to show you,” mom said, leaning towards me. “It can happen at any time.”

I nodded.

“Did you hear about the woman who won the lottery?” she asked, her voice just louder than a whisper.

“Mom!” I whispered out the side of my mouth.

She continued, “She won the lottery, stayed up all night partying, and then was hit by a car and died the next day.”

I ran my hand down my face and mouthed ‘Holy crap!’ into my palm as I watched the lady next to my mother stare at her in horror.

The pastor stood and gave the benediction, inviting the congregation the opportunity to view the body.

“Are you going to look at him?” mom asked, rubbing my forearm.

“I can see him now,” I replied.

“I mean are you going to walk to the casket?” she asked, sitting up taller in her seat attempting to peek over the heads in front of her.

“Yeah, I need to.”

“I don’t know if I want to,” she said. “It’s sort of morbid.”

“Yeah, but I need to,” I said, watching the usher release a row of people. “The last funeral I viewed the body was when I was 12 and its stuck with me in a negative way since.”

At our row, the usher asked us to stand and pointed, those of us who wanted, towards the body. I was nervous and about to turn the opposite direction, but I went forward with the crowd.

I looked in on the uncle and saw he was at peace. I couldn’t bring myself to touch him, but I tapped the casket twice and whispered, “Thank you.”

Prior to today, I, like my mother, saw no sense in viewing the body for I too thought it morbid and unnecessary.

I wondered why anyone would want to remember a person in that way; arms folded, skin grey, and body unmoving. Why do we strive to remember them bloodless and not as they lived?

But as I looked upon this man who was barely eight years my senior, I understood.

We look upon the dead bodies of our loved ones, because we are telling death that we will have the final say.

This viewing is our power over death. We tell the cold, hungry earth that we shall only commit our loved ones when we are satisfied that our time with them is complete.

It’s our final goodbye, and it’s on our terms.

[1036]

I’m not a difficult person. I mean, I have my idiosyncrasies like everyone else, but for some reason, even when I explain these to people, they still go out of their way to push those buttons.

Take for example my older sister Raymond Barf Pickle.

I really can’t stand people chewing food with their mouths open. Barf Pickle knew this and savored the opportunity to push my ultimate irritant button and laugh maniacally as often as she could.

I’d be in the living room, watching Nova and be interrupted by the constant smack of lips from behind me.

“Please stop,” I said, not bothering to turn around and face her.

Smack, smack, slurrrrrp, smack.

“Rae, please stop,” I replied, rubbing my hands over my ears. “You know mom asked you to not be rude.”

SMACK, smack, smack, smack, SMACK-SMACK-SMACK, smack.

“Mom!” I screamed, filling my ears with my forefingers. “Mom!”

SMACK, smack, smack…

I turned around, but Barf Pickle was gone. Mom stood in the doorway, a wooden spoon in her hand, and the sheet curtain used to keep the wood stove’s heat trapped in the living room draped over her shoulder.

“What the hell is going on in here?” she asked.

“It’s Rae,” I replied, inching away from the spoon tapping against her thigh. “She’s sitting behind me smacking her food again.”

“Just ignore it!” mom billowed; anger rolled across her face, lightning across a dark, cumulonimbus cloud.

She turned, whisping the sheet over her shoulder. It rolled down her back, mountain storm clouds in a draw and a lightning snap at the end as she disappeared from sight.

Minutes later, RFB returned, Twinkies in hand. I followed her with my eyes as she skipped past me to the couch. She rustled the packaging, snapping the ends to create a POP! and sat down on a pillow, crossing her legs and popping a bubble with gum between her teeth.

“It’s not bothering me,” I said, trying to look as smug as possible. “Nothing you can do at this moment will upset me. I am totally oblivious to your existence.”

She shrugged and smacked her gum. Every once in a while she’d slurp at the saliva collecting in the corners of her mouth.

“I can’t hear you,” I said, turning up the volume on the television set.

She bit an end off of a Twinkie, chewed it loudly, and then swallowed with an audible gulp.

I laughed. “You’ll choke and I’ll sit here and laugh.”

She bit off the other end, again swallowing loudly.

“Just sit here and laugh,” I said.

She turned the spongy desert in her fingers, eyeing me over the top. She took the treat and placed her lips over the end.

“That’s not even going to make a sound,” I said, defiant to the end, which was precariously closer than I could have imagined. “You are wasting your time.”

She took a deep breath, puffed her cheeks, and with a sparkle in her eyes, jettisoned the white, creamy filling into my face.

Too stunned to give chase, I watched lethargically as she dashed out the screen door to her car in the driveway.

She made a couple of cheap gestures in my direction, laughing and pointing. The thing she hadn’t realized is she’d left her keys sitting on the pillow she’d recently vacated. Now in my possession, it was my turn to laugh as I walked to the kitchen and tossed them into a frying pan full of day old bacon grease and turned the burner on.

I figured I’d let her know once the decorative leather soaked up some bacon and the keys got nice and hot. Fifteen minutes? That seemed about right, especially since she was leaving for work in twenty.

[627]

      I’m at work and I don’t like it, but it’s definitely not what you think.

I don’t like it because I am the only person here on the eighth-floor. Well, me and the Flash action figure who was reading this over my shoulder.

As I typed, I swore someone said “Hi” behind me. I have to admit, I freaked out. I turned immediately around and looked for the owner of the voice above my cube wall, but saw no one.

That was a few minutes ago; since then I’ve heard “Hey, buddy” twice, but each time I turned around no one was there.

I continued to type until I worked up the courage to stand up from my chair. I moved noisily from my cube and out into the dimly lit pseudo walkway that surround my cube like a carpeted moat.

As I rounded the darker side of my cube, I put my hands up in a defensive posture. No way I was going to be taken by surprise, but I screamed anyway as a voice called out from my cube, “I’m in here dummy.”

Immediately I ran for the door, but once my hand touch the lever I remembered my coat and keys sitting on the desk.

“Shit,” I said, running the back of my hand over my perspiring forehead. I was cool to the touch and the hair on my temples stood out in tufts of fear, but still thinking clearly. That was good.

I inched along the wall, seams on my shirt popping scabs of old paint from its surface.

At the corner, I reached my fingers around to protect my eyes should anyone try to poke them as I peeked around.

I saw nothing. No standing warrior, no crouching bear, muscles taut with anticipated action.

“I don’t know who’s screwing with me, but you need to knock it off,” I said, then turned to make sure the person hadn’t double-backed around behind me. He didn’t.

“Who you gonna call?” asked the voice and then it laughed. “You’re thinking Ghostbusters aren’t ya?”

“No,” I paused. “Ok, actually I was, but that’s not fair.” I replied, my voice shaking, but only slightly.

“What’s fairness gotta do with it?” asked the voice. I could tell now it came from my cube.

“Hey, I’m going to just grab my keys and coat.” I inched around the corner, my back rubbed against an office door latch and the rattle brought a screech from me, but just a small one.

“Why are you scared?” asked the voice. It was closer, definitely in my cube.

“Listen,” I said, inching towards the opening to my cube. “I’m going to grab my stuff and I’m going to go. You can keep the IPod, just leave me alone.” But as soon as I’m downstairs, I’m getting security, I thought.

“No you’re not.”

“No I’m not what? Leaving?”

“Calling security. You won’t have any way to explain this.” Another laugh.

I froze.

How the hell did he know what I was thinking, I thought.

“Because I can read your thoughts man!” said the voice.

That was it.

I reacted before I thought and with one step I was in the doorway to my cube. I reached to my side, grabbed my coat and keys and turned to run, but a flash of red caught my peripherals.

“Hey buddy!” said the plastic Flash on my bookshelf. “Stay awhile and let’s chat.”

I didn’t shit myself, but I farted and then I screamed. It was a jack-rabbit scream, throaty and full of terror. The difference was, my legs didn’t pump like a jack-rabbit, they moved like melted Gumby as I half-trotted to the door.

Somewhere between the door and the elevator I skinned my knuckles. I didn’t care how much it hurt at that point or at what I scraped them on. I figured whatever had my skin must have wanted it pretty bad and that it could keep it.

The elevator didn’t respond right away, but 57 taps on the down button finally brought it to my floor.

Somehow I said prayers I had learned long ago but then forgotten. I researched verses in the bible in my hand. Where I picked that up, I’ll never know. At that moment I was trying to find ways to protect myself from the demon in my cube, should it decide to follow me.

I scrawled my check-out time and said “Good luck” to the security guard.

“I think you mean ‘Good night’, “ she replied, smiling.

“Yeah, whatever,” I said, pushing open the door. “Good luck with that.”

She laughed as the door closed behind me, but as I looked over my shoulder to see if I were being followed, I watched as she leaned over the desk to look around the corner back towards the elevators.

It only took another five seconds for me to reach my car and be on the road.

First thing tomorrow, I was throwing that damned toy away.

[833]

My wife once told me that if we weren’t married I’d be a whore. She has a good point, but I wasn’t always this way. Nope, when I was 16, I was a totally different person towards women. I’d like to blame the military for corrupting me, but if I think about it long enough, I realize it’s just me. 

Back when I was 16, I had got my first girlfriend; my very first girlfriend to be precise. Back then I was nervous around women, real nervous, but Tanna, well; she wasn’t the same around me. In fact, I often thought she was a tad too comfortable.

“Isn’t he so cute?” Tanna said to her friend, running her hands through my hair as I stooped to put the prior-class books in my locker.

“Knock it off,” I said, brushing my flat top back into place.

“Oh, my little Philly-bear. I know you like it,” she said, doing it again; this time back to front.

Yeah, it was awesome. Awesome up until a loose hair would catch the wind and rock back and forth in the most irritating of ways.

“Come on,” I replied. “Do you really need to call me that?” I licked my fingers and rubbed them across my hair.

“Would you rather me call you ‘Flipper’?” she asked, running her hand across the small of my back.

“You’ve been talking to my mom again?”

She giggles. “No, your sister.”

Lampwick walked behind me, punching me in the ribs. “Get some,” he whispered into my ear.

“No thanks,” I replied. “I’ve got Tanna.”

“Funny dickweed,” said Lampwick’s younger brother Lamar, pulling on my knit-tie as he passed.

I seethed, clenching my fists and gritting my teeth.

“Ignore them,” Tanna said, running her hand across the back of my neck.

“Harder than it sounds,” I replied. To my left, Lamar flips me the bird and slashes a thumb-knife across his throat. “They can be persistent.”

“Listen,” I said to Tanna. “I need to talk to you.”

“Give me a kiss,” she replied, pointing at her cheek.

I comply and she places her hand against the spot with an Oh.

“Listen,” I continue. “I’ve heard rumors about stuff you’ve said.”

She’s looking over my shoulder and as I turned I catch her friend looking back at her with her lips pulled back and her eyebrows raised. Yeah, that’s right, I think, I caught you. I turn back to Tanna.

“As I was saying. I’ve heard a rumor and I don’t like it.”

“Who said it?”

“It doesn’t matter, but I heard that you are only being nice to me because you want to sleep with me.”

“I wouldn’t say that to anyone,” she said, rubbing my shoulders. “And if I were going to try that, I wouldn’t put pressure on you.”

“I just don’t think we should be together anymore.” I looked over her shoulder at the clock. Class bell was going to ring soon and I wanted nothing more than to be out of there. “I’m not ready to do that yet. I…well…you know.”

She laughed. “Are you telling me you’re saving yourself for someone?”

“Well, yeah. I just don’t know who yet.”

“You’re serious? You’re dumping me over a rumor?”

“It’s from a good source.”

“Source my ass. It’s called a rumor for a reason, because…because, well, because it’s a rumor,” she stammered, then muttered, “I’m going to kill Sergei.”

I looked at her. “That’s who my mom sa…” I tried to catch myself.

“Your mom?” she asked loudly, dropping her hands from my shoulders.

I looked around, the once bustling hall now held only a few stragglers who stopped to stare at us.

“What do you want?” she snapped at them. “Get to class.” They complied. “Your mom told you about this?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Good God. Are you serious?”

“Well, yeah.”

“You are serious.”

“Well…”

“If you say ‘Well, yeah’ one more time, I’m going to bitch slap you,” she said, then turning away from me she added, “I guess that’s that?”

“Well, ye…I guess so.”

“Alright. Your choice.”

I watched her walk down the hallway, tossing her hands in the air as she muttered to herself and finally turn and step through the classroom doorway out of sight.

“Well that went well,” I said, placing books in my locker.

+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

I closed the door to the shop. Mr. Schmidt looked up, a smirk on his face. “You’d better have a good reason for being late,” he said, then added with a smile, “Flipper.”

Lampwick smiled as I rolled my eyes and thought, Today sucks.

[764]

“Another couple of shovelfuls and this puppy is done!” Chester exclaimed, tossing the shovel on the bank and climbing out of the hole.

“So why are you climbing out?” I asked, looking up at him.

He jiggled his pant leg, sending dirt down into my face. “Because you just got here and I gotta pee. I’ll be right back.”

About 20 minutes later he returns, munching on a celery stick. “What are you doing?” he asked. “And where‘d you find that?”

“I didn’t,” I replied, stroking the animal’s fur, “It found me. It’s cute right? Look at how it eats this cracker out of my hand.”

“That’s a rat.”

“What?”

“That’s a rat,” he repeated, waving the celery at it.

“Gaah!” I yelled, tossing the vermin over my shoulder. With a shudder, I rubbed my hands against my pants.

“What took you so long?” I asked.

“Got hungry,” he replied, stuffing the remainder of the stick into his mouth. “Leth get bithy.”

He grabbed a shovel and started tossing dirt over the top of the lip, the other half cascaded like stardust into my hair and eyes. “You were petting a rat,” he chuckled, tossing another half-shovel of dirt into my hair.

“Yeah,” I replied, digging a foothold into the sheer surface of the hole. “So, do you think my dad will notice this?”

“The hole?”

“No, the dirt shampoo you’re lathering in my hair.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” I replied. “Yeah, he’s going to notice. It’ll be the first thing he notices if we don’t hide it before he gets home.”

“We can cover it with brush like they did in Vietnam,” Chester says, leaning against the shovel handle.

“Oh! Maybe litter the floor with punji-sticks too?”

“Is that a popsicle?” he asked, looking a hundred yards past me.

“Yeah, bad idea,” I said, shaking my head. Chester’s never been one to keep up on history. He thought Ironsides was a ship after my dad told him its nylons.

“Dad’s got a tarp though,” I said. “We could lay it out and secure the corners with the dirt. Cover the middle with a pile of leaves and wah-lah!.”

“Good thinking,” Chester replied, rubbing his chin and spitting a shell on the ground. “We could either kick the excess dirt around or haul it around the corner of the house.”

“Where’d you get the sunflower seeds?”

“Tomorrow,” he continued, “we could pull the tarp back and dig some more. Get it real deep then.”

“Where’d you get the seeds?” I asked again. “Are those my dad’s?”

“Get it deep enough and maybe build a ladder so we can climb in and out? Does that sound like a plan to you?”

“Dude, where did you get the…What? Yeah, a ladder’s cool.”

“Does your dad still have that flooring up in the barn?” he asked, breaking the seal on a can of soda and taking a sip.

“What? Where? Is that my soda?”

“Yeah, he does. I remember seeing it this morning when I was reading your mag up in there.”

“My mag? Do you mean my Hustler?”

“Yeah, that one. Don’t worry, I put it back under your pillow.”

“Wait, what? Pillow?”

I fumbled with the footholds, scrambling to reach the top of the hole. “Give me a boost.”

Chester pushed on my foot and I slipped up over the top, running full-bore for the house. My older sister took every opportunity to rat me out to my mother and I’d be damned if I was going to let her get the upper hand here.

Five minutes later I was back at the hole, Chester was laughing at me. “Nah dude, I totally left it under some plywood in the barn.”

“Good one,” I said, looking at Bear chewing on something near the trash trailer.

“What’s the dog eating?” I asked.

“No idea,” Chester said, scraping his shovel in the dirt floor of the hole.

“Where’s the rat?” I asked, looking around before grabbing Chester’s hand and helping him up out of the hole.

“No idea,” he replied, dragging his shovel out of the pit.

I looked over at Bear; he coughed a couple of times, puked something up and sniffed it before consuming it again. Sick, I thought.

Dusk flooded the sky with an orange glow as Chester and I scattered the last few leaves over the tarp. In the half-light, the ground was barely distinguishable from the surrounding lawn.

“Too bad the sods so heavy,” Chester said with a sigh. “Else we could have used it to cover the hole and make it more believable.”

“I’m just glad we finished it before my dad got off work.” I replied. “Where’s Bear?”

“He limped off while you were in using the crapper.”

“Why was he limping?” I asked.

“I figure it must have hurt bad when he hit the bottom. He puked a couple of times before I got him out of there.”

Headlights broke the southern horizon and we both turned to look. “There’s your dad,” Chester said and tossed his shovel into the bushes near the trash trailer.

I followed suit, but my shovel plinked off the trailer tongue and flipped back on to the tarp. “No time to fix that,” Chester said.

Inside, we grabbed a couple of books and fell on to the couch to make ourselves look occupied.

Dad’s lights crested the driveway hump and flashed across the living room window to the right. I dropped my book as the anomaly registered.

Coming into the driveway, the logical turn was around the horseshoe to the left, dad only turned right when his next action was to back in and hook up the trash trailer. Somewhere during the day I had forgotten it was Friday. Not only Friday, but the last Friday of the month; payday. Payday meant tomorrow was trash day.

“We’ve gotta hide,” I said, shaking as I put the book on the end-table.

“Why?” Chester asked.

But the damage was in progress and we couldn’t hide now. We could run, but even in his forties, I’m pretty sure the old man could have run us down.

As he backed towards the trailer the rear wheels slipped through a curtain of uncertainty and dropped out of sight. The rear bumper slammed off the opposite side, the tow-hitch creasing the earth with a metallic sigh.

Dad felt, more than heard; assuming he’d merely hit a pot hole, he gassed it. The rear tires spun against the far wall before catching and popping the rear end up and out. Once free, he backed a couple of feet before stopping; in the worst possible spot.

For out of the twelve feet of truck available, he parked the two feet below his door, directly over the now-exposed hole.

I watched in horror from the bay-window as he leapt gingerly from the woven bench seat of the green Dodge and promptly slipped from sight; his trucker-hat spinning in the air a couple of times before following his fall.

Dad stood up, the tip of the hole coming to his chest. He rubbed his chest and lower back, wincing at the pain. His next step brought the handle of the shovel trebucheting up into a sickening crack against his forehead and nose. I could have sworn his arms extended like in cartoons, but that might have been fear justifying the horror in my mind.

Stepping back, he slipped, his feet kicked in the air like a dying cockroach as he disappeared from sight. I watched his shoe spin in slow motion, taunting me, before falling back below the lip and landing with a thwack.

“We’ve gotta hide,” I said, turning quickly to Chester.

The screen door clapped as it slammed against the door frame. Chester was gone, his flight marked only by tiny plumes of dust settling atop the amber-lit driveway. He wasn’t coming back.

“Mom,” I yelled, slamming the screen door against its hinge. “I’m sorry about the mag.” I was sure she’d find it as she collected wood for my casket.

I chanced a last look over my shoulder as I jetted down the dirt driveway after Chester on rubbery legs.

Behind me, my dad slowly pulled himself from the hole and I was certain this was one night I would outrun him.

[1386]