NOTES FROM LAST BREATH FARM
The first of a new monthly feature!
Dear Willy
Fiction by Rob Azevedo
SG&M Girl: Kristin
Dear
Willy,
Jenny told
me you called the other night. You
sounded maligned and beaten, she said, like someone had taken a rivet
gun to
your insides. And before she had the chance to tell me you got
laid off
from your rug job, I knew life had you
licking the curb.
There
was a maze of guilt attached to your voice, a low,
sardonic hum trapped somewhere between anger and con-
fusion. How she was
able to tell me this in such a richly thuggish manner is beyond
me. Maybe
it was the environment
she was speaking from, a place plagued with
sleeplessness and human gas.
Don’t be sore with Jenny for not
going into details about where I was or where I am. She may have
said I
was working
on a lobster boat off the coast of Portland or riding a roller over
fresh asphalt on some highway in Huntington Valley.
She was only lying
for her man, as a good mistress should do.
Remember
awhile back when you tried to reach me at the
steel yard and I wasn’t around? Later I told you I had gone
to Hopkinton
for the day to price out some scrap steel. Well, I lied. I
wasn’t
in Hopkinton. I was home pacing the
floors, fretting about my unborn
child and a pile of statements cluttering my desktop. I was too
embarrassed to tell you
I’d been laid off due to a series of lost bids.
What
man at thirty-two can stand up and admit to being
jobless when his friends are out there making a living? It’s
beyond my
character. I was at home sick with grief, bug eyed and gaunt,
tired of
jacking off as I stared into the com-
puter screen, at a Latina with a hunk
of camel-toe hanging from her thighs taking a nut into her yap.
Sad
days, Willy. The Mecca of Ugliness.
But
there were many other reasons for my lies. I
can’t get into it now, not at this point of the letter. A buzzer
is going
to sound very soon and I’ll be led to a room thick with cast iron
tables and
ravaged souls. True Hell.
But I
was telling you that the company gave me two hours
notice and the day’s pay. That’s it, check you later, they
said. No
need to reapply. Your skills were bunk.
“Eat
me!” I shouted at my co-workers as I rushed past the
yard gates in my old beater. Yeah, man, I was still cruising
in the
Corolla. Yeah, man, it had about 172,000 miles on it. Yeah, man,
dog days
were on the rise.
I
recalled horror stories about past employees being sent
home with nothing more than a meaningless promise of a
strong recommendation
and my thoughts turned dark.
I
wanted to strike back, cut into the ribs of the fat cat who ran me off
the job site wielding a nickel-plated Derringer. He
said I
stole from him. Sheet-plates or something, maybe welding tips,
whatever
the Hell it was I didn’t do it!
Sure
I made a fuss about getting cut loose. I may
have kicked over a gas drum that spilled across the mechanic’s floor,
among
other acts of random destruction.
But I was feverish, desperate, and I ached to rip out the black
heart
that
feeds the organs of that cantankerous lout named Bennett.
So
I started planning.
After
my outburst I drove to the Dollar Store in town and
bought the joint out of popcorn. It was either that or cheap
ketchup. I hate vinegar. I figured if I was going on the
lam I
could live off popcorn. Easy cleanup.
“That’s
forty-three dollars, sir,” the girl behind the
counter said to me.
“You
take personal checks I hope,” I said.
“Yes
sir. Make it out to me,” the little vixen said,
flirting with the man that smelled of gas and resentment.
Normally
I would have lobbed my half hard cock up on the
counter and asked “You like to read road maps?” But I
was in a rush and the
cops were either at the yard taking notes or screaming down Route 33
looking
for a rusted out
Corolla. I had to get
going.
I cut
the bad check and was out the door. Seven bags
full of popcorn in
my hands. I tossed them across the front seat of the
Corolla and jetted
out of the shopping plaza and onto Hanover
Street. A
crowded throng of
cocksuckers filled the lane I needed so
dearly. I
rammed the horn with
iron fists, shouting at children and fat
moms.
It
was then I knew the shift was on, Willy.
I
drove over the city strip and up onto the
embankment. The axles were
shaking, wheels bending, radiator
spitting,
window’s cracking, everything
going to shit in one clear moment.
I was
loosing my fucking mind.
My
heart beat rapidly into my ribs. I was breathing
oddly, taking fewer
breaths than normal. My tits were convulsing.
My brow was covered in wet
dirt. The chew I had in my lip was
smashed all
over my teeth.
Soon
I found myself standing in my kitchen, heating my
hands under hot
running water. A slow breeze slid through the window
above the sink and I
could smell butter burning over the popcorn going
off in
the microwave. I’d
vowed to ration myself to three bags a day.
Then
a hard knock came from the door. Shit luck, it
was my neighbor Ed. Retired buzzard was always up my ass.
He
was
a good salt, but man, his timing sucked. I
opened the door. “Ed, I’m busy.”
“Too
busy for a beer?” Ed asked holding two Bud
cans. His neck was swollen and I knew this wasn’t his first
tanker of
the
day. “Making
popcorn?”
“Yeah,
yeah, yeah.”
“Can
I have some?”
“No,
yeah, whatever the fuck!”
Ed
was drinking his beer fast. I had just about
loaded the last bag of popcorn into the contractor’s bag I'd grabbed
from
the
basement when Ed asked if I wasn’t going to drink that beer could
he.
“It’s your beer Ed.”
His
neck continued to swell. I loaded the popcorn
into the backseat of the car and told Ed to tell Jenny that I love her
and all
that shit.
“You
love her,” Ed repeated.
“Yes,
Ed, I love her. Tell her.”
“Okay,”
Ed said. “I’ll tell her you love her.”
I was
out the drive and down the street quickly. I
drove the back roads that lead back towards the steel yard. I had
left a few valuables there. Most
notably, a Holland skeet with a single trigger straight grip, full size
lock
and blue wood
finish. I had that baby tucked away in canvas at the
top of the yard, behind some brush where we stacked the steel. I
pull it
out some days at lunch and fire shots at families of wild turkey in the
fall.
When
I got there the gates were locked so I hopped a fence
adjacent to the 75-acre yard on a condemned road, walked
a few hundred
yards in and found the Holland right where I’d left it. I checked
the
auto ejector, the butt and the barrels
for clearance. Nice. Back over the
fence I went and was clearly set on making it to Route 89 without much
trouble. I’d
tuck myself behind a big wheeler, I told myself, staying low
in my rotting Corolla.
This
time, Willy, I did go to Hopkinton, but again not for
scrap steel. Bennett lived in a big house on a hill up
there. I
knew the area, the home and the roads that led to it. Night will
be
coming soon, I told myself. Snake your way through
Monroe, cut up into
Henniker, past the covered bridge, past the old foundry, into Rye, and
then make a
straight shot
up 106 into Hopkinton. Grab a coffee. Pop a chew.
I was
doing all right for a bit. My chest was settling down
and right then I heard the whistles blow.
“What
the fuck!” I shouted. The damn bags of popcorn were
stacked so high I couldn’t see out the back window.
I’ve
never been good with side mirrors and I guess with all the excitement I
never looked behind me.
I
kept driving. Fuck this. I needed work. I
needed a reason to answer that grating bell in the morning, the one
that
tells a man he is worth his spit. All these fucking louts
depriving me of
my wages, they don’t cut steel! They just cut
severance checks!
Two
other blues joined the race through the woods. It
was on. The Corolla was handling perfectly, as if it was on its
last
b-double-e-double-r-u-n, beer run. Humming and gliding over tree
roots
and acorns. “Never mind the mirrors! Let
them go!” I was shouting.
The
blues were closing in. The Corolla was down to three
wheels. Shit! Two wheels. My head kept smashing up into
the roof of
the car. Coffee was everywhere. I can’t find my fuckin’ chew!
Then
buckshot came through the back window. One
caught the side of my head and the car set
sail. Right up over
some dead logs before slamming into a big oak.
I hate the outdoors.
Anyhow,
since that night in the woods I’ve been healing up
in chains. Way out here in an Ohio jailhouse. It’ll be some-
time
before we shake hands again. I’m looking at 64 months, or
less.
Maybe I will use this time to tune up my
resume. Make some calls.
Answer some ads. A man needs work, Willy.
So,
be strong good friend, bear down and clutch the walls
that warm your home. You’re not alone on the Road to
Chumpsville.
Now
go get a job!
Yrs,
Muddy
Atkins
Mr.
Azevedo,
from Manchester, NH, has written for The Boston Globe, Details,
King and
Ramp magazine. buy cialis Munich hotels slot machines
