A flickering light bulb dangled over a kitchen sink. Hardwood floors with boards missing. A plastic Christmas tree stood in the corner. Mice ran on counter tops. 

He sat in a metal folding chair, drinking what was left of a forty ounce. A pack of cigarettes with one sticking out upside down. His prison tattoos were starting to fade. The refrigerator hummed and kicked.

On walls are drawings in magic marker. Green and red with shades of orange leaves falling from a tree. It reminded him of his childhood. A cop car cruised by with its lights on. Sirens blared. The old man remained calm.

When he was a kid, he raked leaves every fall. His dad would make the boy sweep fallen colored pieces into piles around the yard. He was promised a dollar for every pile. Sometimes payments were made, other times not.

You’re not doing it right, kid, dad said. Put your back into it, he yelled. Girls walked by and laughed. And pick em up. All of them. I want to see grass. His father shouted like a Marine seargent. Pick em up. Pick them up. The leaves were placed in dark green trash bags and set out by the curb. You did good, kid. Here’s a five. Now beat it. The father laughed as his son ran away. Never to return.

That was years ago. Jobs had come and gone. Always on the bottom of the totem pole. He finished his beer and lit his last smoke. The one that was upside down.

Here’s to you, pop. Hope you’re at peace. The old man looked up and crossed himself.

The dangling light burned out.