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Couch Thing
A
smoldering roach heads up a cavernous black one-and-a-half-inch burn at the
center of a magnolia in the florid pattern of the gold-and-rust-colored,
dogpiss-blotched fabric of their flea market couch.
Old Ritz lies on Robert’s crotch. He
growls at his own bad dreams, wriggles, scratches
vigorously at his groin, then curls back into na-na
land. Robert’s big screen is turned up full blast. He hollers at Juanita
whenever he wants something. Right now he wants her to know he “don’t b’lieve in murder a children less ‘n when the little
fuckers is got a knife ta thurkin’s throat.”
The five
o’clock news is on. A blonde child has been abducted from her bed
while her younger brother watches. Not good enough for Robert. He surfs
channels till he finds a florescent orange explosion. YES! His tool belt
remains slung over the arm of the couch right where he tossed it after he was
booted from his last job almost six weeks ago for trying to jump a teenaged
girl who was flirting with the carpenters.
He’s been thinking about sharpening his Philip’s head
screwdrivers. He’s about out of weed and wishes Len and Mike would show up.
They always have a little extra to spare.
Juanita
is in the kitchen grinding pork shoulder. Her little red radio blasting her
troubles away. Mama’s Dawson’s
precious porcelain tea set chatters on the tin knickknack shelf. She’s
listening to Faith Hill — wishing her own hair was true blonde. Wishing the
brow beneath her bangs did not look and feel like wetsopped
rough-out rawhide. Wishing Robert was not slouching around home seven days a
week. Better yet wishing Robert had never happened at all.
She whistles for Ritz. He comes in a dash. She feeds him a
few scraps of gristle. The two of them exchange bare tongue licks. She wishes
she had a man who was as grateful as Ritz but reckons this is just too much to
ask at this time in her life.
She’s sweaty in a cold kitchen with the oven on and it just
doesn’t make sense. She’s tired. Real tired. She’s plumb
used up.
Robert comes to his senses just
long enough to realize Ritz is gone from his lap. He’s pissed. Ritz is his
dog. Ritz keeps his crotch warm. This fucking trailer is as cold as the
bottom of LakeWalla about half the time. Somebody better get her cunt in
gear and get the propane bill paid. Robert re-lights a useless stub roach –
sucks on it like a fresh new pussy – or… he pretends it’s how he might
suck new pussy. Fat chance!
He hollers for
Ritz. Ritz joins him smelling like juicy pork. Robert slobbers all over the
burned out magnolia.
Juanita turns the burners to high
– leaves them flaring as a beacon for what she hasn’t had the gall to just
scrap.
She takes her
own sweet time moseying out to the mailbox.
She hates the
tall dry weeds all around the trailer. That bastard promised six months ago he
wouldn’t let them happen again this year. They are a gawldang
fire hazard.
She finds a longing letter from
Justin. He’s living in Austin now.
Gawwwd.
It’s been
twenty-seven years since she’s seen him. Almost twenty to the day since she last got word of him.
It must have
taken a lot of guts for him to contact her.
The back tires on the pooped-out
Chevy wagon need air.
Austin’s not more
than a day-and-a-half away.
Ritz joins her thoughts.
The road is a warm place.
Spiel is a born maverick, describes himself as old at 64, and is a diverse full-time writer
whose quirky short stories, raw poetry of conflict, and odd bits of art and photography may be
seen in a wide array of independent publications such as: Abbey; AlphaBeat Press; Barbaric Yawp;
Bathtub Gin; Chiron Review; Iodine; Nerve Cowboy; Parting Gifts & Thunder Sandwich. His most recent
chapbooks, 2005, are: it breathes on its own, published by Pudding House Publications, and church floor,
by Chiron Review Press.
Email: Spiel
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