Status: I got a clue as to where this was heading, and now it's finished.
Bus
3.
Every day, on the way to Alta Vista from the junior high, we pass by this other subdivision. It’s so ghetto that the sign in front of it doesn’t even have letters on it anymore. I’m sure it used to, but I guess a bunch of thugs stole them or something.
The sign is covered in a thick layer of graffiti. Most of it’s pretty profane; kids think that it’s funny just to spray-paint “DICK” or “PUSSY” on a piece of public property. It’s stupid. It’s like, why would you waste your time doing that?
There are a couple of words that have been on that sign for as long as I can remember, but the first time I saw it, I didn’t read it right. It’s in big gold lettering, this vibrant paint that you can read from a mile away, and the first time I laid eyes on it, I thought it said, “Beg One.”
I looked again a few days later. No, it said, “Be Gone.” The letters ran together like that.
~~~~~
My apartment isn’t real nice-looking, but I guess it suffices. It used to be just for military vets; they changed that about twenty years ago and now anybody can live there. Me included.
It’s not pretty, but it’s “home.”
The walls are brick and weathered to hell and back, and even though it’s really not that old of a building, it still looks ancient. Its color has worn to a rusty red that kinda makes it look like it was made of metal that was left out in the rain, even though it’s made of bricks.
And another thing is the smell that’s seeped into this place. It smells like old people. Old people and books. I mean, I can live with books, but old people? I understand that a lot of the people who live here are actually old folks, but seriously. I’ve gone through thousands of air fresheners and not a single one has covered the stench.
I open my door and the familiar smell whooshes over me. It’s a bittersweet smell. The day is done, but it stinks. It takes a few minutes to get used to.
Yanking my key out of the door, I grunt and shut the door behind me. It’s only five in the afternoon; after driving the Yuma kids to school and back, I feel like I’ve been working until midnight.
My answering machine beeps, snapping me out of a daze I’d gotten into for the past hour. I can’t remember the last time someone called me. Then again, it’s probably just some dumbass telemarketer…
I press play.
“Hey, Doug,” a familiar voice rings, “I’m just calling to make sure you’re alive. It’s your sister. Call me back. I haven’t talked to you in a while.”
I kinda smile, but I stop myself. Carrie…man, haven’t heard her voice in months. I guess without Mom and Dad around we’re kinda absorbed in our own things right now…
That’s normal, though, I guess. Without family gatherings (everyone else in the Tater nest is either dead or living across the country) we don’t really get much of an opportunity to talk much. Anyways, Carrie’s way better off than I am. She’s twenty-eight – my baby sister – and she’s got a four-year-old little girl. The last time I saw her, she was pregnant with her, and she and her fiancé were still together. But her fiancé was sleeping around with a coworker and it all just went to hell.
Apparently he still pays child support. That’s good, at least. I still wanna kick his ass, though.
I snap out of a flashback and quit smiling, picking up the phone. I remember Carrie’s number by heart and dial it, but when the phone rings four times, I hear her answering machine sound.
“Hey, this is Carrie Tater. I’m not home right now, so just leave a message. Bye!”
My heart falls a little bit, but I say something anyway.
“Hey, Care. It’s Doug. I’m alive, heh. Um…” I pause, trying to form a sentence that’ll sound intelligent. “How are you doing? Call me back. And if you get –”
“BEEEP.”
I swallowed some spit that I’d been too caught up to control and hung up. And I prayed to whoever was making the clock tick that she’d call back, so I’d at least have someone to talk to.
The sign is covered in a thick layer of graffiti. Most of it’s pretty profane; kids think that it’s funny just to spray-paint “DICK” or “PUSSY” on a piece of public property. It’s stupid. It’s like, why would you waste your time doing that?
There are a couple of words that have been on that sign for as long as I can remember, but the first time I saw it, I didn’t read it right. It’s in big gold lettering, this vibrant paint that you can read from a mile away, and the first time I laid eyes on it, I thought it said, “Beg One.”
I looked again a few days later. No, it said, “Be Gone.” The letters ran together like that.
~~~~~
My apartment isn’t real nice-looking, but I guess it suffices. It used to be just for military vets; they changed that about twenty years ago and now anybody can live there. Me included.
It’s not pretty, but it’s “home.”
The walls are brick and weathered to hell and back, and even though it’s really not that old of a building, it still looks ancient. Its color has worn to a rusty red that kinda makes it look like it was made of metal that was left out in the rain, even though it’s made of bricks.
And another thing is the smell that’s seeped into this place. It smells like old people. Old people and books. I mean, I can live with books, but old people? I understand that a lot of the people who live here are actually old folks, but seriously. I’ve gone through thousands of air fresheners and not a single one has covered the stench.
I open my door and the familiar smell whooshes over me. It’s a bittersweet smell. The day is done, but it stinks. It takes a few minutes to get used to.
Yanking my key out of the door, I grunt and shut the door behind me. It’s only five in the afternoon; after driving the Yuma kids to school and back, I feel like I’ve been working until midnight.
My answering machine beeps, snapping me out of a daze I’d gotten into for the past hour. I can’t remember the last time someone called me. Then again, it’s probably just some dumbass telemarketer…
I press play.
“Hey, Doug,” a familiar voice rings, “I’m just calling to make sure you’re alive. It’s your sister. Call me back. I haven’t talked to you in a while.”
I kinda smile, but I stop myself. Carrie…man, haven’t heard her voice in months. I guess without Mom and Dad around we’re kinda absorbed in our own things right now…
That’s normal, though, I guess. Without family gatherings (everyone else in the Tater nest is either dead or living across the country) we don’t really get much of an opportunity to talk much. Anyways, Carrie’s way better off than I am. She’s twenty-eight – my baby sister – and she’s got a four-year-old little girl. The last time I saw her, she was pregnant with her, and she and her fiancé were still together. But her fiancé was sleeping around with a coworker and it all just went to hell.
Apparently he still pays child support. That’s good, at least. I still wanna kick his ass, though.
I snap out of a flashback and quit smiling, picking up the phone. I remember Carrie’s number by heart and dial it, but when the phone rings four times, I hear her answering machine sound.
“Hey, this is Carrie Tater. I’m not home right now, so just leave a message. Bye!”
My heart falls a little bit, but I say something anyway.
“Hey, Care. It’s Doug. I’m alive, heh. Um…” I pause, trying to form a sentence that’ll sound intelligent. “How are you doing? Call me back. And if you get –”
“BEEEP.”
I swallowed some spit that I’d been too caught up to control and hung up. And I prayed to whoever was making the clock tick that she’d call back, so I’d at least have someone to talk to.
♠ ♠ ♠
Super duper short, I know. But it's something. ::facepalm: