sketchbook #1

Lenny

 A train pulls away from the station, full. The racket, the mind-mushing clack and bang of the machine’s bulk as it chugs along, rattles the bones and brains of the bodies on-board. Some feel it in their teeth, some in their chests, some in their groins. All onboard have unique and specific expectations. Each interprets the clang, boom and steam differently. Good omen or bad, good news or bad, good feelings or bad, none of them look each other in the eye. Everyone gazes out into the world whizzing by.

It isn’t long before the scenery blurs in wet streaks of green and brown and blue. A boy no older than nine is asleep against the cool window glass. A girl with Sennheiser headphones mouths words no one else can hear. Every once in a while the sun shoots through in fat rays, blinding those looking out. Shoulders and arms and East facing sides overheat.

 #

Dirt in his eyes, under his fingernails, smeared in sticky lines on his forehead and down his cheek. Filthy and satisfied, a day’s work truly done, Lenny limped to his truck. In the cab he popped a twenty-four ounce can of Coors and pulled heavy from the bright aluminum. When he licked his lips the metal taste lingering there comforted him all the way down. Another fat gulp and Lenny fired the ignition. The engine roared and the truck shook and Lenny laughed; not because anything was especially funny.

Dust showed his path home. Anyone who didn’t see the clouds the truck’s wide tires kicked up certainly heard the music (chunky guitars, bombastic drums, wailing fiddle) blaring from that rusted Ford’s cab. Lenny always drove with the windows down. It was his version of freedom. People who were out and about at that particular time of day were used to the sight and spectacle of ole Len rattling home. Don’t stand too close to the road unless you want a mouth full of gravel, son.

Darlene waved from the relative comfort of her front porch. She never knew if Lenny saw as he sped past each day, but she always waved, regardless. Rituals mattered. Besides, Lenny deserved some small kindness. She owed him and a wave was the least she could do to by way of repayment. For the record, Lenny never asked for more.

At home, Lenny stepped from his truck, throwing his empty cans into the side yard and standing with his mouth agape on his weathered porch. Why the ever living fuck was his front door open? Goddamnit.

Lenny fished his rifle from the lockbox in the bed of his pickup. He made sure there was something painful in the chamber, then lumbered back toward his front door. A fat glob of saliva smacked on the stepping stones lining the way toward that ominous open door. Here we go, he thought, and cocked his gun.

A couch turned on its back. Papers scattered. The television on, flashing static through a cracked screen. Blood on the basement stairs. A fat bubbling water stain on the ceiling above the kitchen table, rust colored rings spreading from the bulge. Dishes shattered. Lenny was staring at the brown drip from the faucet when he felt the bullet strike his neck.

#

Lenny didn’t show up for work the next day. Arthur would have been livid if only he could overcome the overwhelming confusion. In fifteen years Lenny hadn’t missed a single shift. Something was wrong and Arthur knew it. Lenny’s phone rang and rang and rang. On the sixth failed attempt, Arthur slammed the phone down so hard that the screen cracked.

 #

 John Michael finished his whisky. Again, he asked Carla to meet him at his trailer after her shift. But, again, Carla declined. She didn’t even pour him one for the road. This wasn’t the good ole days. She was tired of his relentless advances. Visions of New Orleans danced across her eyelids. When she opened her eyes again it was darker and John Michael was gone. His stool wasn’t even warm. Carla smiled and she swore she heard a slow saxophone. One secret shot of the good stuff wouldn’t hurt.

When little Suzy Santer came flying into the bar, screaming bloody murder, Carla regretted that shot. She cursed beneath her breath and tried to focus on the little girl’s frantic wailing.

#

Red and blue lights filled Lenny’s yard, flashed against his aluminum siding like fireworks. Carla parked on the road and walked up as far as she could before Deputy Appleton shoved his stiff arm into her chest.

    “Is Lenny really… Davy, please.?”

The deputy considered his next words with great care. He spit between his feet, then looked Carla in the eye and said, “Yep. ‘fraid he is, Carla. So sorry...”

     Carla nodded but she didn’t cry -- and if that fact surprised Deputy Appleton, then it shocked the holy hell out of Carla Davenport.

#

4AM.

Carla found herself wide awake and full of whisky. The heat was stifling. No air moved through the open windows. Her thighs stuck to the vinyl sofa and sweat stained her tank top. Her nose was buried in the photo album on her lap. Tears never threatened and that worried Carla. If she couldn’t cry for Lenny, she wouldn’t cry for anyone... more whisky.

#

The funeral was modest, mostly friends and co-workers. Arthur was ashamed and stood in the back. He still felt embarrassed and guilty about his childish reaction to Lenny’s absence, even though no one else witnessed it. But then, that’s Arthur.

Lenny’s father died when he was just fourteen. But Lenny’s mother was still alive. She lived three counties over and though she was notified of her son’s untimely end, she’d decided not to attend the service. Her son hadn’t spoken to her in many years and she’d long ago grown accustomed to the idea that he was long gone. Torment, at this stage, felt redundant. Fair enough.

One strange person, dressed in red, not black, stood in the back, six feet to Arthur’s right, motionless and speechless. No one recognized the stranger and no one approached. Months later Carla would wonder if that person had been Lenny’s killer and she’d kick herself for not approaching, for not even trying.