The home was dilapidated. Nothing good happens in a dilapidated home. Everyone knows that.
If you can’t take care of the outside, how can you possibly take care of the inside?
If you can’t wipe off the dining room table, how can you possibly eat in peace?
Dilapidated. And dark. Dark no matter how much the sun shone outside. Dark no matter how many lights were on inside. Dark no matter the season.
You could feel the darkness.
The smell and sounds hit you at the doorway, if you dared to step inside.
Cigarettes and ashtrays. Glass bottles and empty cans. Orange pill bottles and eye drops. Stale spaghetti and fruit flies buzzing. AC/DC and Ozzy blaring in background when times were bad. Sublime and Hendrix when times were not as bad.
The kids didn’t know any different.
The older sister wore princess dresses, every one with a smudge or stain. The boys wore the same mesh shorts and ratty t-shirts. One, because that’s what pre-teen boys do. Two, because they had no other choice.
I came to visit just before 10am. What I Got was playing from the boombox.
“Come on in! Beer’s in the fridge. Have a seat.”
“No thanks, I’m good.”
He sat in the broken recliner and clicked over to a replay of a Nascar race.
Where do I start with this guy, I wondered.
Omer Redden 