Strawberry Gulch

I’ve plenty warning. The road to my house is one long lane of dirt; his truck raises an awful plume. I wasn’t expecting him, but I’m not surprised to see him. He comes when he wills. I watch through the window as dust rises and overwhelms the sky. Plenty time to lift myself from my recliner. He pulls up—the hoarse roar of the engine and then its sudden silence. Bootsteps across wood and a single, timid knock on the door. It’s been a while since I’ve opened it and seen him through the screen door. I look to see in what new way he’s not what I remember, if he’s lost more weight, if he has a new scar, new tattoo. He says, “Hey, Mama.” And still I don’t open the screen door; nor does he, though it’s unlocked, he knows it is. Whoever heard of a locked screen door?  If he wanted he could reach down, pull it open, and there wouldn’t be this metal between us. Instead we stare at each other like a game of chicken. Whoever opens the screen door first is the loser and it’s always me, I’m always the loser because when he says, “Hey, Mama,” I open the door because what else am I supposed to do? I’m serious. This is me, asking you. You, eyes come to see me. What else am I supposed to do? I open the door and turn around, let him enter of his own accord, let him come inside treading dust, disturbing my peace, and if I open the door at least that’s by my say-so. Isn’t it?

I return to my recliner. He shuffles in after, sniffing too loud, maybe on something, maybe just sniffing. He always has the forlornness of the stoned; I imagine he burns through a joint before coming to see me. I imagine I’m as taxing to him as he is to me. Only two things, taxes and death. Me, I keep myself content with beer — beer and a sneak of tequila, now and then and mostly now. I do not think I am better than him, when my own trash bin tinkles and chimes every time I drag it to the far end of the road, which is a production, let me tell you, with that long, dirt road. I am not the judge of my son. That is not what this is.

He finds a beer in the kitchen, returns to the living room, sits on the bad couch. We watch the muted screen of the TV together for a while. I put the silence on when I first saw that plume of dust out my western window. It’s Wheel. The wheel spins. Someone guesses the right letter and gets a little richer.

“What brings you?” is what I finally ask.

He needs money. He owes people. Impatient people. He doesn’t need a lot, just proof that he’s capable of bringing a little in. A little gets you a lot more slack. Better a leashed dog than a dead one. He needs a little money. Any little bit I’ve saved up since last time he had the need. Once upon a time, he could really sweet talk you. Now we’re both older. His voice has lost its luster. He trails off in his plea about a quarter of a way in. I know the rest. The rest is obvious by now.

Have you seen my house? You, eyes unwelcomed.  My house is cinder block colored a sulfur yellow. My roof is tin and flat. There is a wooden deck of weathered wood that extends out my single front door. My house is mostly square. The kitchen is a bit of linoleum, then there’s a wooden divider, and then a teak carpet. There’s the bad couch which is blue and my good recliner which is brown. There is the TV. There is a short hallway which leads to my bedroom and bath. It is only the one bedroom and one bath. The ceiling is low and popcorn. It all smells of cigarettes, though I don’t smoke. The windows have venetian blinds and pale curtains I didn’t install right. My long dirt road leads off from a gravel road that leads off from a cracked blacktop that leads to Interstate 5. From my porch, you can see the flashes of cars and big rigs driving in the long nothing between Las Vegas and Los Angeles. In my yard are the rusty T’s of a clothesline long since unstrung.  There is no grass. There is sand and creosote and rock. And some bunny ear cacti, their bloom the only color I’m afforded. How about it? Do you see me?

I don’t give my son the money. But I watch him walk back to his truck. His truck is small and black and the back fender is bent out of shape and the brake light is cracked and the door squeaks when it’s swung open and it putters to ignition and it makes a mighty plume of dust as it travels down the dirt road that follows Strawberry Gulch.