A rusted Dodge Dart held together with duct tape, and Gorrila Glue pulls up in the old man’s driveway. It is dark. The porchlight is off, and street lamps flicker a hazy blue hue. Bobby gets out of the car. He lights a cigarette and pops open a beer while leaning on the hood. A squad car drives by. 

Bobby breathes in the night air. He pulls a gun from his coat pocket and checks it. He looks it over. There are bullets in the chamber. He laughs quietly as he approaches the trailer’s door. The kitchen light is on. He knocks. 

What do you want? 

Open the Goddamn door. Come on now. It’s cold out here. Bobby bangs on the door again. The old man opens it. He’s in a pair of stained boxers and a T shirt. He holds a cup in his hand that says, Wisconsin Dells on it with a picture of a water slide. When Bobby was younger, the family used to go there. This was before Walter lost his job at the steel mill. Before everything went to shit.

The kid makes his way through the doorway, pushing the old man aside. A faint smell of coffee fills the room. There is a light brown liquid in the coffeemaker. Bobby begins to laugh.

You call that coffee?

I do.

It’s just hot water dad with remnants of grounds floating around. You call that coffee?

Mind your own business.

Bobby pulls out the pistol and points it at Walter. He begins to laugh at the old man. Walter covers his ears and begins yelling nonsense. Bobby laughs harder.

I’m not going to shoot you. Just wanted to show you what I got. Also bought a car for five hundred dollars from a priest over on Broadway.

How is she?

She runs. Not pretty. But she runs. Bobby walks over to the couch and places the gun on the table. He pinches off some pot from an opened package. It’s stale. Crumbles in his fingers. You got to wrap this shit up, Bobby says. Keep it fresh. Can’t you do anything?

I don’t smoke that shit. You must have forgotten. Bobby looks at the old man and continues packing his pipe.

Twigs, the son says. This shit is no good. He opens another brick. Tears into the cellophane and takes a good amount. He bangs his pipe on the table and refills it. He lights it with a torch; a huge flame from a Zippo lighter with a red, well-endowed woman on it who has horns on her head. He calls her devil woman.

She looks like Bettie Page, dad says. The body. Looks like Bettie Page.

Who?

She did teaser movies in the fifties. Real soft core shit. Some say she went off to be a born-again Christian. Others just say she lived a quiet life in obscurity.  Who knows?

You’re not as dumb as you look old man.

How about a little respect.

Bobby looks at him and laughs. For what?

I’m your father.

You’re a bum. You live off SSI. Could never hold onto a job. Your old lady left you. Respect? 

Now. Now, there’s a reason for all that. 

Yeah. Bobby wraps the brick up tight. He picks up the gun and stands up.

Got anything for me?

The kid pulls out a twenty and hands it to him. Then pulls it away. He laughs. Here. Just take it. The old man cautiously takes the bill as Bobby takes two bricks of pot with him. He lights a cigarette and leaves. Just shakes his head and leaves.