the home sits in the dusty grimy rim of Las Vegas Nevada,it’s more than a trailer, but not by much with a shabby roof and peeling blue paint on the shutters a pickup truck going nowhere parked on the front lawn the cracked driveway stands empty. the chainlink fence guards the property from intrusion.
A plastic lawnchair occupies the stale dim living room. a regrettable purchase from a long-ago trip to wal-mart. straps of periwinkle and white cris-cross to form the surprisingly comfortable seat he occupies. he sits surrounded by the remnants of cheap beer and a cheaper marriage.
dirty dishes lay mangled in the sink. the television softly hums the channel 8 news. he slouches, his belly—a recent addition to a formerly toned carpenter’s physique—crests over his belt. the scraggly grey beard trickles down his chin. he glares at the crack in the window, questioning the sunlight.
a fly buzzes overhead, making its rounds through the house seeing what it can bother. he reaches up and swats. missed. he repeats his futile attempt and loses himself. hopping through the room, barking and hollering at the damned fly, he lunges and makes contact, only to clip the wing. the fly lazily falls to the floor in a misshapen spiral. it continues twitching and groaning on the floor. the chair beckons, and he returns.