Tourists of the Apocalypse (6 page)

My one bright spot is Saturdays when I get paid to wash Violet’s car. The first time this occurs after the bills I can’t pay arrive in the mail box, the Porsche isn’t in his driveway. I slump on the front steps grumbling to myself.
What can go wrong next?
Head in my hands, I sit on the steps and pout. Car washing doesn’t pay enough to keep the lights on, but it’s better than nothing. Sweat rolls down one forearm and I sit very still and watch it drop onto the wooden steps.

Graham’s screen door creaks open and he wanders out to gather his paper. I don’t stand up and wave, but lean down and try to hide.
I only wish I was invisible.
He sees me and beckons me over. Curious about Violet’s whereabouts, I shuffle over to his driveway.

“How’s Missy?” he asks, tapping his paper on his hand. “I mean your mom.”

“Pretty good.”

“You’re probably wondering about Violet.”

“Well, I didn’t see the car,” I grumble, unable to snap out of my dismal mood.

“Can’t say for sure when she will be back. Things are picking up over here,” he explains, waving the paper around at the houses on either side of his.

I nod and daydream about what Graham will think when they evict us? He’s been so nice, but there has to be a point where the helping hand ends.
He’s not a branch of Goodwill.

“How long you in school for?”

“Another week.”

“Are you going to get a job this summer?”

I nod, caught off guard by his question.
Is it that obvious we’re destitute?
He watches me for a moment, but I stay silent out of embarrassment.

“How do you feel about landscaping?” he tosses out and pauses when I don’t answer. “You know, cutting the grass, trimming around the trees and stuff.”

“Yeah, I know what it means,” I grumble, regretting how harsh it sounded exiting my mouth.

“Right, well I have three lawns that need to be taken care of.”

“You got a lawn guy,” I point out, “or guys. They come every Tuesday.”

“You’re right,” he admits, then pauses, “but I don’t care for them. I’m thinking of letting them go. You have any interest in the job. It’s all three yards, trimming and weeding. The whole nine.”

I stall, unsure what to say. It feels like charity, but it would be something. Its doubtful mowing the lawn will pay the mortgage; this will not solve the long term problem.
Is this just charity and if so, do I mind?

“You interested?” he asks again, drawing me out of my daze. “Earth to Dylan.”

“Sure.”

“What would you charge me for that sort of arrangement?”

Stumped for a reply, I put a finger to my chin and pretend to think it over. It’s unlikely any sum he offers would be too small.
Beggars can’t be choosers.

“What where you paying the other guys?”

“Too much,” he groans, “and they did a crap job.”

He waits but I don’t answer. I feel tired all at once, like the energy has drained out of my body. This really doesn’t matter. I’m going to do it either way. I shrug and hold out my hands.

“What’s the mortgage on your place?” he blurts out, shocking me.

“Excuse me?” I bristle as that felt like a very personal question.

“What’s the mortgage on your house,” he repeats seemingly unaware of my reaction. “Izzy says you’re paying all the bills. Just tell me what you pay for Casa-del-Dylan?”

Izzy did come to see my mother once when I was sifting through late payment notices on the kitchen table. When I tried to cover them up she looked away.

“More than you pay a lawn guy.”

“You might be surprised. Tell me?”

“Eight and a half.”

“Lights and water plus eight and a half,” he mumbles, looking off to one side as if he’s solving a puzzle.

“You don’t have to—.”

“Let’s say four a week. That’s sixteen hundred a month tax-free,” he proposes. “Should keep a roof over your head till the Fall.”

“That’s really nice, but it’s too much,” I reply, wanting to take the words back immediately.

“Clearly I have not explained the job to you then,” he grins. “All three houses mowed and trimmed like a golf course. I’m going need flower boxes added under the front windows of all three. Not to mention the guys who built the houses were supposed to plant bushes down the sides and along the back”

I nod, for some reason thinking I don’t want the job now. It’s not that I am lazy, just not particularly industrious. This feeling goes away quickly when the cloud of eviction darkens my thoughts.

“Are you sure?” I shrug, still feeling like it’s charity, but not wanting to pack up my stuff and move away.

“You want it or not? Paperboy Jerry already asked me if I needed anything.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Good,” he nods sharply. “Let me get something to eat. Come back in an hour and we can sort out the details.”

I nod and for some reason the only thing that floats across my mind is Violet. I guess it’s not that surprising. I spend a lot of free time thinking about her.

“So what happened to Violet?” I call out as he puts a hand on the screen door.

“You might have noticed I have a roommate now,” he reveals, looking over his shoulder.

This is true. A week after his friends showed up, a short chubby man came in a taxi. There are four guys living in the first house and Graham and the new guy in the middle place. Izzy occupies the third with what I can only assume is her boyfriend, Lance. She’s not wearing a ring, leading me to assume they aren’t married. Lance is a tall, dark haired man of few words. Everyone seems to take direction from him, except Graham. When I have had occasion to observe Graham and Lance together there is tenseness in their body language. I wonder what Lance will think about me being his new lawn guy.

“Is he relative of yours?”

“Nope, but babysitting him leaves little time for Violet.”

“That’s a shame.”

“You have no idea,” he sighs.

I watch as he disappears inside. Not seeing Violet is sad news for a young man with no practical experience with women.
Her visit was the highlight of every week
. I decide to share the good news with my mother. It seems we are spared the hangman’s noose until the Fall at least. By then, her jaw will have healed and who knows. I pause on the porch and try to think of a time when my mother worked? As far back as I can recall she stayed at home with me. Dad passed when I was eight, leading to a string of boyfriends. Jarrod had been here since my tenth birthday.
I can’t believe I survived almost four years of Jarrod
. I decide to worry about my mother’s employability at a later date.

As I climb the stairs, I pass a pile of boxes containing Jarrod’s belongings. I find it odd that he didn’t take anything with him. I was instructed to gather them up and put them here, but no further direction was offered.
I’ll ask Graham about this later
.

…

Graham wasn’t exaggerating the time and effort required to manage all three homes. My entire summer is dedicated to building flower boxes and mowing lawns. The outcome is good since I get a month ahead on the mortgage and even manage to keep the cable TV on.

I get to know most of our new neighbors as well. In the house next door are four guys. None of them use actual names, which makes it feel like a frat house movie. There is a heavyset black guy they call T-Buck, who is obsessed with cars. Many old ones come and go from his house, most arriving on trailers and leaving the same way. It’s not uncommon for an engine revving to startle me awake in the middle of the night. A smallish pale skinned fellow they call Blister follows him around constantly. From what I have observed he is T-Bucks assistant, always handing him tools and running after stuff. His complexion is pasty and he stays out of the sun like a vampire.

The other two are like Siamese twins. Cain and Abel are frail, almost effeminate looking. Both have shoulder length brown hair worn in either a stubby ponytail or pushed back with a girlish looking headband. They often wander to Lance’s house consulting with him on this or that. Cain carries a clipboard everywhere he goes, never setting it down. They share similar olive complexions and green eyes.

The middle house is Graham’s, but a chubby man with thick glasses also stays there. He’s balding and on most occasions sweaty. He almost always wears a white dress shirt and khaki slacks. This ensemble is made odder by the high top tennis shoes that never leave his feet. He goes by Mr. Dibble, a title all of them use religiously. He reminds me of Dilbert rather than Dibble, but Graham did not think this was as funny as I did.
It almost seemed like he didn’t know who Dilbert was?

The third house, kiddy corner across the oval turnaround is Lance’s. He and Izzy live there leading me to believe they are a couple. As previously stated, I haven’t seen any wedding rings, but his body language around her is very possessive. Izzy, for her part, appears to defer to him, but they all do so I can’t be sure about that. Lance is tall, well over six-feet, with dark hair pulled back in a man-bun. They all look to be in their late twenties or early thirties, but Lance is probably the oldest.

I’m just finishing up raking Lance’s yard when Dickie’s silver Mustang sputters down the street. He’s doesn’t turn into his driveway four houses back on the corner, but instead continues down to me. It’s not really his house, but rather his mothers. Dickey’s mom is a recluse, almost never setting foot outside. She’s walks with a walker and last I saw her, Dickey was taking her to a doctor’s appointment several months ago. My own mother is the only person I know who has actually spoken to her, but she won’t comment.
My mother won’t say anything if she has nothing nice to say
. Jerry, the paperboy, and I often joke that when she dies, Dickie won’t tell anyone so he can keep cashing her government checks. A gruesome image of her body in a basement refrigerator often haunts me at night after these little chats with Jerry.

Stopping clumsily at an angle in the open circle, the car coughs to a stop, blue smoke huffing out of only one tailpipe. Dickie hops out and leans over the roof staring at me. He’s skinny with an unkempt mullet of dark greasy hair. Sparse hairs on his chin reveal he can’t really grow a beard, but would like one. As per usual, he’s wearing a sleeveless denim jacket with hand sewn patches. One cool patch I recall from an earlier visit reads
THRUSH MUFFLERS
scrawled across a cartoon bird that resembles Woody Woodpecker. A cigarette dangles from one corner of his mouth as he continues to stare at me. Dickey has to think on what he wants to say awhile before actually saying it. Whatever fell on his head down at the cement plant was just heavy enough to slow down his thought process, without actually killing the poor guy.

“Yuh, yuh, you seen Jarrod around?” he finally blurts, pointing at me with his smoke.

“Nope.”

“Po, po, Police were down at the plant asking questions today.”

This is interesting. I wonder what mess Jarrod is into now. Dickey had previously revealed that he never came back to work after being shown the door by Graham.
Nothing like a good beat down to keep away the riff raff.

“Maybe he robbed a bank or something,” I suggest, watching Dickey flick ash on the roof of his car without noticing.

“Wuh, wuh well they,” he starts, pausing with a hand to his forehead. “Wanted to know if I seen him around here.”

“Here?”

“Yuh, yuh, your place, this street, with your mom,” he explains in choppy starts and stops. “Probably be here asking after him soon.”

“We haven’t seen him.”

“Aye, aye, I hope they find him,” Dickey grins, hitting his smoke and blowing it out one side of his mouth. “Take him downtown and fry his nuts with a car battery.”

Jarrod gave him a really hard time, but this statement seems a bit harsh to me. I do chuckle to myself at the visual. Jarrod probably deserves it.
Will the cops really ask me questions?
My mother’s jaw is no longer wired shut, but since the incident she rarely speaks.
It feels like she’s not here anymore
. She talks only in whispers and mostly to Izzy, whom she adores. The poor woman seems changed by the experience. I’m unsure if she would speak to the cops if they came.

“Thuh, thuh, these, weirdos still paying you to mow lawns?”

I nod.

“Lah, lah, lucked into,” he suggests, then takes a long pause. “Lucked into the money with that one.”

“Agreed,” I bob my head and search for something to say. “They won’t take me at the plant till I’m seventeen.”

“Piss, piss,” he spits, flicking his butt on to the pavement. “Piss on that. Do something, anything else.”

I nod, unwilling to argue that point.
No one really wants to work there.
He slips back behind the wheel and starts the engine. Blue smoke blows out of one exhaust pipe, but not the other. The door still open and with one foot on the ground, he cocks his head around to look at the cloud. I walk forward and lean in the passenger window.

“Smoke’s bad,” I suggest, having watched it get progressively worse over the summer.

“Yeah, yeah,” he chokes out and then coughs a loogie on the ground. “Gonna put an engine in it this weekend.”

“New one?”

“Nah, nah, no, found a rebuilt 289 out of a sixty-seven.”

“What year is this?”

“Nine, nine, ninety-seven,” he nods his head and frowns.

Dickey has a reputation for being a bit of a butcher with cars. He helped Jerry’s brother install a radio in his truck and there were wires hanging down on the floor. It’s hard to imagine him playing with engines.

“Well, good luck with that.”

Dickey nods and slams his car door. He has to slam it three times to get it to stay shut. Turning sharply, he narrowly misses Graham’s mailbox, before rambling down the street and turning into his driveway. I’m watching him try to slam the door again so he can go inside when I am startled by a hand on my shoulder.

“What did
Sling Blade
want?” T-Buck asks.

Turning, I find Graham also standing there drinking a cup of coffee. I frown as T-Buck and his crew have dubbed Dickey
Sling Blade
, after a movie character they find amusing. Seeing my displeasure T-Buck holds up both hands in an,
I’m sorry
gesture.