Jerry Bray
Tossed
into
Nowhere
Blame Pete’s troubles on the countless whispers of pink insulation dropping out of the sky. Tattered shag green carpet remnants. Dead uprooted oak trees and crumpled powder blue cattle feeders. Blame his troubles on Sheila, who didn’t even call or come by after he shot himself through the hand with Daddy’s six gun. Twirling it, three sheets into it, trying to be somebody. Trying to be Clint Eastwood.
Pete’s
looking
out the window of Myrtle’s Truck Stop. The coffee’s a bit hot
for his
chapped lips. There’s pie over in the case already. But it’s too early
for pie,
especially lemon snowed up with whipped cream. A buck fifty not
counting taxes.
Yes sir, it’s too early for pie.
He
thinks about Momma’s place. About the phone call he made last Tuesday.
“Momma?”
“Yeah?”
“How
you doin?”
“Peter?”
“Yeah,
Ma.
It’s me, Pete.”
He
told her about the tornado. How there was nowhere to stay. He waited
for her to
say come home son. But those words never come. Sounded like Judge Judy
was on
TV, but Pete couldn’t say for sure.
He
asks, “You don’t reckon I could borrow your couch for a few days?”
“That’s
Doug’s.”
“Doug?
You
still got him?”
“Yeah,
but
his teeth fell out. All he can eat is biscuits and gravy.”
“He
still bark at rolled up socks? Boy that was funny to watch.”
“No.
Not no more.”
Momma
cleared her throat.
The truck stop door jingles, and there’s a dark man in a suit and tie. Mexican? No, most likely an Indian with the casino. The Indian looks over at Pete, and all Pete can do is take another sip and look away. Still too early.
~
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© 2009
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