The television was off. He looked at a blank screen. Black. No pictures. No sound. The old man just looked at it. Waiting. Wanting to see something. Anything.

He sat on the couch, wondering where the TV remote was. Where did I put that thing? he asked himself.  Can’t find anything anymore. It’s all disappeared. Gone.

Trash and boxes covered the floors and countertops of the trailer with black ink, saying what was inside.

Jewelry. Pots and pans. Dishes. Pictures. Winter clothes. Blankets. Craftsman tools. Old worn-out shoes. He was too lazy to look inside the boxes. He sat talking to himself. Talking about Barbra Eden. Saying she was a fine looking woman. Saying he’d do anything to have her. A real-life genie granting him wishes. He took a drink of cold coffee.

Dad? You in there? Open the door, his son said as he knocked. Come on, dad. It’s moving day.

He continued looking at the blank screen, disregarding the pounding on the door.

Dad. I’m going to kick this door in if you don’t open it.

Where are we going?

You’re moving to your new place.

I want to stay here. Go away.

Can’t let you do that.

Have you seen the remote? he yelled.

What?

The TV remote.

It’s by your ashtray where it always is.

The old man looked at the coffee table. Looked at the ashtray. Ahh. There it is. He hit the red button, but the television did not come on. Does anything work anymore?

Dad. Dad. Open this door.

What’re you going to huff and puff and blow my house down?

Just open the Goddamn door, dad.

Staring at a blank screen. The old man continued staring at the blank screen.

Dad. Dad.