TROUBL

     On a diamond meshed fence that partitioned Jacob’s family home from his neighbors, four wings moved their wings beneath a decent day. Water had fallen throughout the night, but morning’s slight shine had evaporated some of it.
     Next to the refrigerator and tacked on the wall, there was a car themed calendar. With his feet free, Maurice bent his waist and put his face close to the grid of numbers and weeks. “Thursday,” he said in introversion. Retreating to his room, his body came back with fresh shoes, slacks, and a collared shirt. Cologne was more than enough on him, attempting to compensate for his non-bathing.
     Above the stove, Jason wrapped his handle around a handle of a medium-built frying pan. A stick of margarine was on an adjacent counter. A one-half opened loaf of bread and lean slices of cheese were next to it. Flipping his sandwich, Jason pressed upon the side that had just been closest to the stove heat. Preoccupied by his culinary exercise, he did not notice Maurice leaving.
     “Where’s Maurice goin’?” Jacob asked as he shut the door.
     “I don’t know.”
     Jacob moved to the back room and returned without jacket or shoes over himself. Television awoke after he pressed the gray button labeled ‘on.’ Afternoon cartoons and shows that revolved around talking came and went. Jacob eased his search on a sporting event. Score read one to one and comments were in another language.
     Entering with a warm sandwich, Jason tore it into two crude halves. Readjusting his body into a less uncomfortable position, “Who’s this?” he said with a stocked mouth.
     “I don’t even know,” Jacob switched the station.
     “Turn it back.”
     “Fo’ what?”
     “So, I can watch it.” Through the kitchen window, a horn and voices at a lung’s top summoned Jason to the door.
     “What you doin’?” A tall, hefty man prevented a car from moving up the street. He was half covered and his bare stomach reached over his pants’ belt buckle. “Stop! Stop!.”
     “Move yo’ ass!” A woman called from behind the wheel. Water came down her eyes, disfiguring her make-up.
     “Baby. Stop! Let’s go in!”
     “Move! I’m gon’ run you over!” The horses beneath the car hood began to move, and the metal bumper turned into the man’s knees.
     “Girl!! Wha’ the fuck you doin’?” He stepped aside and threw a kick against the bumper. Behind a windshield, a smirk printed on the woman’s face. She turned the wheel again. The car moved and knocked the man onto the dampened concrete. Streetwalkers stopped and giggled. And spectators from their homes hid amusement behind cracked doors.
     “Who is that?”
     “Janice and Ray,” Jason returned.
     “Them two always fightin’,” Jacob replied.
     “Ain’t tha’ the truth.”
     “When Mom get off?”
     “Sometime tonight.”
     “What time?”
     “I don’t know,” Jason said with an annoyed look to his brother.
     Around an oval table, three men and four young ladies were enjoying one another’s company, and a handful of people moved in rhythm around past decade’s music playing in the next room. Floured chicken was dipped in boiling grease. Spaghetti cooked in a huge pot. Corncobs boiled in a gumbo basin. And juice from oranges, grapefruits, and cranberries were alongside drinking alcohol.
     “You know you ain’t right,” one of the ladies said as she smoked a rolled tobacco stick.
     “Shit. It’s true,” Maurice replied.
     “No it ain’t.”
     “Ya’ll get anything ya’ll want.”
     “Who says?” interrupted another lady. She had her bottom on the table, motioning her head with the surrounding sounds.
     “We do,” answered Maurice. The men gave reassurances to each other through laughter.
     “That’s right. Men don’t get shit. ‘Cept for headaches, backaches–
     –And dickaches,” said the lady who perched on the table. The immediate area went into glee, some crying and others slapping palms against the table and other people.
     “It ain’t easy being a woman.” She lifted from Maurice’s lap. Wearing a jean skirt, she went to her feet and reaffixed the casual top over her top. Her heels carried her towards the stove. Her ponytail swayed. She sat her body on one heel and said, “What you want?”
     Maurice took a sip from his three inch glass. “I’m alright.”
     “I’m not,” one man said in play. “Get me a beer out the fridge.”
     “I ain’t no maid,” she returned to Maurice’s lap with a half empty glass of darkened liquor.
     “See,” as he went to the refrigerator. “We get no respect.”
     “Shut up. She could’ve thrown it at you,” said a lady.
     “Naw, she ain’t crazy,” he twisted the bottle cap and threw it on the counter.
     “Don’t say that.” Maurice straightened his eyes at the woman on his lap.
     “Guess you would know, huh?” the man asked while taking a swallow.
     “No, but she ain’t done no crazy stuff to me.”
     “Not yet,” the lady smiled. She smoothly scraped her done finger nails against Maurice’s face.
     “I’ll say,” a lady said.
     “Me too,” Maurice took a sip and kissed the neck of the lady on his lap.