Tony pushed the handle of the Barcalounger down as he pressed his heels into the footrest. The chair yelped and folded back into itself. He balanced his weathered body and successfully raised to his feet. A half-hearted fart quacked out of his torn white briefs as he walked down the hallway. Passing by the pictures of his former life. The Kodak-colored family portrait of his dead wife and the girls that don’t come around much, anymore. Patricia gave him three girls that scattered when the cancer took her. Jenny is in Michigan with her own family. She married a Jewish fella that doesn’t much like small towns. Kelly’s in California. Santa Monica or Santa Cruz. Santa something. Michelle is overseas somewhere. No one has talked to her in years.
The light in the fridge blinks once then goes out. There’s a stack of the expensive wet food for King, a half-eaten sub from D'Angelo's, wrapped hastily and grease stained. The smell of the vinegar and oil hits him first. Making his stomach growl a bit. He grabs two long necks and checks King’s bowl. King runs through Tony’s legs, brushing lovingly and meows. Setting the beers on the counter, he opens the silverware drawer. Empty. Tony fishes around the sink and finds a clean-enough spoon, opens a new Salmon Surprise and empties the contents into the bowl. King buries his face in the fishy mess.
“THIS IS JEOPARDY” screamed from the living room. The clock on the wall said 6:12. “I gotta change that goddamned thing”, he muttered. He set one beer on the TV tray and the other he twisted the cap off with his grimy fingers. Pushing his stocking feet deep inside his slippers he settled back into the chair. His back hurt. His ‘Property of the New York Mets’ t-shirt was stained, permanently from who-knows-what. He shoved a finger inside his nose and searched around for whatever was making it itch. King jumped on his lap and Tony sneezed, scaring King enough that he buried his hind claws deep into Tony’s thigh. “SHIT MAN!” King leapt off and ran up the stairs. Tony wiped the booger on his shirt and yelled, “Boiler Maker!” Alex Trebek confirmed his answer.
The pile of mail under the slot of his front door was getting bigger. The bottom of the blinds was bent enough for King to peer outside the front widow. It was getting dark sooner this time of year. It had been 6 years since he sold the shop. Miguel would leave messages about unpaid tax bills, but Tony never called back. “He wanted the business so bad; he can deal with the shit.”
Mid-Morning light awakened him. The news lady was barking about how we needed moisture or something. He clicked the TV off and downed the rest of last night's warm beer. He made his way upstairs and pulled on his overalls, ran his fingers through his hair and walked to the garage. His ‘75 Ford F-150 started up with a roar. He rolled down his window as he backed out and hocked a loogie onto the dirt driveway. The cool air felt nice. He lit the half-smoked cigar from the ashtray and zipped up his jacket to the top. The orange cones pushed traffic from two lanes to one. The man with the sign waved for him to stop.
“What’s this shit?” he asked the man.
“Filling up the ravine with sand. The spillway is too full. Safety first!” he chimed.
“Fucking bullshit is what it is! I’ve got shit to do!”
Tony revved the truck and rolled up his window. Crushing the cigar back inside the ashtray.
The man waved him through, and Tony gave him the bird.
“Fuck you too, old man!” the man shouted.
Christmas trees lined the front of the store, along with pumpkins and stand-up cutouts of giant caricatures of turkeys with buckled black stovepipe hats. “Jesus, we might as well celebrate every-fucking-day.”
Tony pulled into a handicapped spot and spilled out of the truck. Pushing 80, he figured he had a right to “Park wherever-the-fuck” he wanted to. His glasses fogged up and he pressed on. Tony grabbed a cart and made his way to the cat food aisle. King has expensive taste. Patricia started that habit and King refuses anything less. A few cans of Campbell’s Sirloin Burger soup, a loaf of white bread, Kraft American Singles, spicy mustard, and a 12-pack of long necks. He got into the queue behind a woman with a full cart.
“Ya know, this is the 8 items or less line, right?”
The woman ignored him.
“Must not speak English”, he said under his breath.
“You know you can go through the self-checkout if you’re in such a hurry”, she huffed.
“I’M NOT DOING THEIR GOD DAMNED JOB!”
The clerk at the register looked up.
“This country’s going to hell”, he sneered.
—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
King watched as Tony filled the tub. He liked to watch the water, sometimes pushing his paw under the spout and batting at it, licking off what remained. Tony set three long necks on the side of the tub. The water felt nice. His knees and back aged by years under a million broken vehicles had broken the man. The first beer went down in one tip. King's ears pushed back as Tony loudly let out the bubbles collected in his gut. Patricia’s pink robe hung on the back of the door. He imagined her in it, with her cotton pajamas making breakfast for them all. Calling up to the girls that they’d be late to school if they didn’t come down “Right this second”. He’d sip his coffee and read the box scores. The smell of eggs and toast and giggling girls was gone forever. Tony slugged down the third beer, collected the bottles and went downstairs. He was getting drunk. He liked getting beer drunk. Slow and manageable. It was good to feel something.
There was a WII documentary on PBS. Tony was never in the war or Vietnam either. Bad eyesight saved him. But he liked the tanks. He was a gearhead. Worked on cars all his life and when his soon-to-be father-in-law loaned him the money to buy his own shop, Tony was on easy street. That was a lifetime ago. The girls stopped talking to him one by one. He drank too much when they were kids. Smacked around their mom and them, too. He always apologized. He didn’t have another way to discipline them. That’s how he was brought up. Patricia put up with it. Now he was alone. Just him and King.
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