Untitled WIP

Here's something I wrote a couple weeks ago, and shelved in lieu of other projects/homework. Maybe I'll post more in a few weeks when I finish, maybe not. I would love to hear your thoughts on the beginnings of it, though. Cheers.

This is Nick.

He is single, 53-years-old, and he lives in the newest prefab home in Riverton. It's seven blocks south of Maple Street, which is two blocks west of downtown, but it is a better street because it's where all the bars are. All of them is only a phrase used to make Riverton sound bigger than it actually is because there are only two bars in Riverton. Nick's home cost $40,000. It's 927 square feet and has a detached carport. Nick doesn't use the carport; his truck is too big.

His neighbors are probably jealous. They don't talk to him, and Nick assumes it's because they're jealous.

Nick doesn't know what happens when you assume. But that doesn't really matter because Nick doesn't like any of his neighbors -- or he wouldn't if he talked to them. If Nick talked to his neighbors he would know that the family next door had three children, but the baby died last december from SIDS and the middle child became the youngest child -- a familial role that she is still trying to grasp. Today is her birthday and Dad took the family to Chilis. They would have described their evening as bourgeois if they knew what the word meant.

Nick would also know that the young, redneck couple that lived in the double-wide trailer across the street were actually named Dale and Brandine. He would have remarked how he thought those things only happened in the movies. He would also know that Dale was laid off today from his job at the auto-body shop, and he hadn't told Brandine. It was a Friday, so Dale figured he could put off the news all weekend and call in sick on Monday if he didn't find a good time to tell his wife. But Nick doesn't talk to his neighbors, so he doesn't know any of this. Nick only knows about the things he does each day and he knows the things he likes.

He likes: Grocery shopping, the sound car tires make on gravel, and punching men in the face. But only men, and only men that deserve it. And only after three or four shots of whiskey at Dockside Bar which isn't located at the docks -- there are no docks in Riverton. There is, however, a river, but it's Nick River. A man with a wife and six kids.

This story is not about Nick River the man. Nor is it specifically about Riverton, where there are no rivers, but there are Rivers. There is not any water, actually, in Riverton. There are only very large pipes buried underground that pump water into the city for its 87 residents. Rather, it's 86 now. Old George Mantooth died last night. (George liked: Peanut butter M&Ms, pin-up girls, and telling war stories about battles he never fought in.) George Mantooth was Nick's father. He hated Dockside Bar.

Nick was in the parking lot of Dockside Bar, which is precisely where his ass landed after he somersaulted out the door. The bouncer had shoved him in the back because he punched a man in the face. But the man called Nick's sister a soft-bottomed floozie, so even though a sweaty asperity dripped off Nick's forehead, everything was right in the world.

But Nick doesn't think like this. Instead, Nick felt good and buzzed. If he was sitting on a stoop with an old buddy from highschool throwing back Budweisers, Nick would sigh contentedly and say, "Yeah, man." Nick, however, was in the gravel parking lot of a dive bar in a down town. He rubbed a dirty palm on his forehead and looked at it. It was sweaty and speckled with blood. "Whoops. Never did get a hang of that tuckin' and rollin'."

There was no one around to hear Nick talk about his shortcomings.

A pea-grean Buick rolled slowly into the parking lot and stopped next to Nick. It belonged to his sister, Brenda. Nick lifted himself into the passenger's seat. "They don't much like you in there," he said.

Brenda replied, "Did Dad say sumthin' about bein' cremated?" Brenda has never been a good listener.

"Well here I thought he died of a heart attack."

"He did. But what are we doin' with his body?"

"I don't know. We never much talked about those things."

Nick hadn't talked to his dad much at all since 2003. Momma Mantooth died the summer of that year. She hated summer. It was too hot and sticky and Momma didn't like those bugs that you can never see but sound like weed-whackers. What Momma did like was: Lemonade, hot tubs, and gin-and-tonics. All of which are more closely related to summertime than anything else, but Momma only enjoyed these things in the fall and winter. She didn't want to look like she was enjoying herself in June.

Old George Mantooth built Momma's casket in the garage after she died. When he was done he hauled it to the cemetery in his truck with a shovel and a tape measure where he dug Momma's grave himself. She was at the end of a long line of decaying Mantooths. There were three more plots in line with reservations for the living.

No one in the Mantooth family had ever been called intuitive. When Nick asked, "Wouldn't he want to be buried with the rest of the family?" Brenda had to think about it for awhile.

"That'd be an OK spot to put him," she said.

Brenda dropped Nick off at his home and they parted ways without talking about Nick's night at the bar. If they had, Nick would have found out that the man he punched was from the city up north. He also would have found out that the man he should have punched was the bartender who broke up with Brenda after a one night stand last Thursday. He may have even learned that Brenda was only at Dockside to drink and flirt heavily with the men at the bar to make the bartender jealous.

There are many things Nick never learned from the people around him.

Nick's home has a new-car smell, but this shouldn't be unexpected. If anyone ever visited Nick, they would notice the smell right away, even before they noticed that the TV was tuned to static. Nick had only the furniture he needed. The kitchen table was small and only had one chair with it. The living room had an upholstered recliner and a footstool. There was a rolltop desk in the corner that Nick used only once a year on the last weekend in March to do his taxes. Nick's bedroom and bathroom were equally sparse and functional. He had a bed and a closet, no dresser, a toilet, a shower, and no bathtub. There was another bedroom, but it was empty and Nick kept the door closed. The walls of the home were white and the trim was Maple. Nick didn't pay attention to these details and if you asked him what color his house was he would say, "I can't recall."