The broom had not been used in years. Grease and dried up food stains decorated the stove. Beer cans all over the trailer. A dog outside on a chain.

He sat in his broken, easy chair talking to himself. Speaking out loud. Making predictions and prognosis. The old man knew he didn’t have long.

Beside him on the end table, a newspaper folded up, dated July 4th, 1986. There was a parade that day in town. Bands marched, a fire truck rolled down the street, cop cars turned on sirens. He was at that parade with his wife and son. They watched it all go by, sitting in folding chairs. Their picture was on the front page. Holding American flags. Wearing red, white, and blue tee-shirts with an eagle on them. He often looked at that picture.

You always wanted more, the old man said. Always unsatisfied. I could never do enough, he opened a warm beer beside him. You told me once I was lazy, speaking to the air. That’s not the way it was, he shouted. I paid the bills. Eventually. So what if we were behind. Everybody’s behind, he slammed his fist down on the arm of the chair. You wanna divorce? I’ll give you a divorce, he said. As soon as I finish this beer, he swigged it down. Then, realized he was alone.