A red rusted Ford truck sits on blocks in the yard. Trailer park cats crawl all over it. Everywhere there are cats, under the hood, on the ripped black leather seat, lying on the cracked dashboard, in the back where the truck’s bed has become one big litter box with weeds growing in it. Holes from BB guns have pierced the side. Kids take target practice in the afternoons. The windshield is broken.

Walter lights a cigarette butt, trying desperately to suck down what poison there still is. He burns the tips of his calloused fingers and places them in his mouth. He sucks on the digits like a baby.

The old man thinks of the other night. Was it real? he asks out loud. Was she really here? He shakes his head and rattles a beer can. Some warm beer is left mixed with ashes from hand-rolled cigarettes. He drinks it down in one gulp and wipes his mouth. Rattles the can a little more. There is nothing left.

No more, he says. That’s that. He walks around the room and picks up empty cans of Old Style, and shakes them. The old man hears nothing. Not a drop of beer in any of them. Coffee, he whispers. I need coffee and about five Tylenol. He walks back to the bathroom where the sound of piss hitting water pleases him. Just like a racehorse, he tells himself.  I still got it. The rug around the toilet is urine soaked. He goes through the medicine cabinet, but nothing is there except a bottle of cough suppressant. He opens it and downs what is left.

There is knocking on the door. He yells to hold on. The beating gets louder. Are you back to haunt me?  Bobby makes his way inside by pushing the door open and knocking Walter to the floor. Bobby laughs.

He walks in with a six-pack and a bag filled with small bottles of Fireball. He holds them high over his head as the old man jumps for the bag and a beer.

Yeah. I got something for you, the kid says. MerryfuckingChristmas. He reaches into the brown bag and tosses a bottle to the old man. Walter opens it quickly. Unscrewing the cap and spilling some on the floor. Don’t waste it,  Bobby tells him. Savor it. Just take it nice and slow. The old man tries but can’t resist. He downs the cinnamon liquid in a quick gulp and begs for a beer.

You want a chaser? Bobby asks. The old man shakes his head. Bobby hands him a can of Coors. It’s Christmas, he says. It’s Christmas.

Thank you.

Sure.

I didn’t get you anything, Walter tells Bobby.

I didn’t expect you would. Now. Let’s get down to business.