Why are you here?
I hear the trunk of a car slam down, and then the shuffle of hard-soled shoes on gravel.
It is a bare apartment, a place I have never been.
The walls are bland, a kind of soap-sudsy white. There are no pictures hanging on the walls. The floors are polished and smell lemony. The place is impeccably clean, but empty. No, not empty; there’s a gun rack fastened to the wall above the fireplace mantel. The rack holds a Mossberg 510, and it’s coated with oily dust. It hasn’t been handled in years.
It’s a small apartment, and the smell of fresh paint and turpentine fills the rooms. The windows are large and closed shut. This place, wherever it is, is brand new. No one has ever lived here.
Floor-to-ceiling windows look out over Texas Street, showing a dull, antiseptic skyline. The windows are the main feature of the living room, offering an aerial view of downtown Handsome. The main street is intricately drawn, like an unfinished Currier & Ives. There’s loneliness here, an emptiness that stretches the length of the main street, a terrible abandonment. Handsome is dead, and I am its only ghost.
I can hear distant rumble. Not quite thunder: the sound of a groaning engine. Then I see the source: an old pickup truck approaching from the east. It’s an old Dodge, a ’31. It hitches up the road, chassis vibrating like a washing machine. It was black when new, but now it’s the color of rusty rainwater, the hood stained with deep splashes of raw metal.
It’s my father’s Dodge.
I don’t remember his truck being this badly out of shape, but years and years have passed since the last time I saw it. Even the imagination gathers rust.
In the imprecise light of the day, I can see the shape of a man inside the cab. He’s looking at both sides of the street, glancing only occasionally at the road in front of him. I know that gesture; it’s the same one Archie Dollar made when he was working out the logistics for a job. But this man – my father? – had a more restless nature.
The shape of the driver is little more than a silhouette; featureless and obscure. It could be anyone. But a boy remembers his father. The hunch of his shoulders, the restless curiosity, the way he grips the steering wheel as if it would get away from him; his shy, distracted smile, the lost look in his eyes. Of course, I can’t see those details, but I can, if I look hard enough, if I pulled away all the shadows. The Dodge rumbles past the Handsome Apartments and slowly rounds the corner of Elm Street. I shouldn’t be able to see the full length of Texas Street, but I can. The engine noise slowly faces into nothing and the street is empty again.
Excerpt from Ordinary Handsome. Available at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00P46ZPA0
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