He slowly wakes up on the couch. It's 11:02 in the morning and the grey sky shows though the dusty miniblinds and cracked filmy window. His pit bull tried to be let out around 9, but it didn't happen so "Flair" (named after the nature boy) gave it up on the kitchen floor by the door. The roaches have plenty of crumbs to work on so they just leave the pile alone.
The coffee table has 14 empty Milwaukee's Best cans, 21 cigarette butts, two uneaten Lee's chicken wings, a three year old copy of Hustler magazine, and a two week old letter from the court he hasn't bothered to read yet. The kerosene heater is making a noise, but he can't hear it because the Price is Right is drowning it out.
Out on the street in front is his Pontiac Sunbird. The duct tape that holds the cardboard on where the sunroof used to be is faded through in spots. The dash is barely visible under piles of trash. The junk in the back seat is hidden under a sleeping bag he threw over it the day he went to his mom's house and he wanted it to look nice.
The smell can best be described as a cross between an ashtray and a small neighorhood gas station bathroom. You know, the kind that says Out of Order on the door -- but if you ask they will give you a key with a two foot piece of PVC pipe hooked to it, it's got cloth handwashing towels, one side of the sink works, and one 25 watt light bulb. Ah, that smell that he loves after a long night of rocking out at the Shenandoah with Chuck and Robbie. Actually, he doesn't really remember going home and making it to the couch, but he did like the smell at the time, trust me on this one.
to be continued...
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