His trailer had bent beer cans all over the floor. Miller High Life, Budweiser, Old Style, all dented and crushed with the heel of his boot, lying on a dingy carpet that smelled of cat piss. He never opened the windows. Never let in the sun, or, fresh air. Cigarette smoke hovered over head.

The old man watched television that night. Had on The Sunday Night Mystery; believe it was McCloud with Dennis Weaver. He cracked open another cold one and laughed at the cowboy trying to solve another case. His boy pulled up outside in his Dodge Charger.

He banged on the front door. The old man didn’t respond. Just let him keep on knocking, he mumbled. He’ll go away. But, the boy didn’t go away. Kept on hitting the tin side of the trailer. The son yelled out, but, it was falling on deaf ears.

Pop, the boy said. Dad, he called out. Open the door old man. Come on. Open it, he began knocking again. You don’t open this door I’m gonna report you as missing, or, dead. Then you’ll have the sheriff out here and all kinds of shit will go down, he told him. Open up pop. God damn. I can smell cat piss all the way out here, he banged on the door louder. The old man came to the door. Pulled back the curtain and told him to go away. Come on dad. Let’s get you out of there, the son tried to see beyond the disheveled old man. Come on now. Let’s go, he said.

Your mother sent you over here. Didn’t she? She would be the logical choice, the old man said. Don’t she know the meaning of divorced? Go on. Get, he went back and sat down in his easy chair. Cats crawled all over him.

I’m gonna leave dad.

Good.

You take care now. You hear.

Uh huh.

I’ll check on you in a couple of days, the kid said. There was silence. I love you, he told him. The old man kept watching Dennis Weaver. Laughing.


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