TROUBL

      On a second trial to get up, aerosol perfume met his nose. New, it was like a body had just sprayed it on. His hat was somehow on Grace’s side of the bed, which was made. Saturday’s imposing afternoon sun made Maurice’s head pound, and the reminiscence of a metal object kept his groin pulsating throughout his sleep.
     Upon leaving, he tracked back to the mirror. Red and bloody eyes watched him. He parted his mouth, tasting the stench across his teeth. Maurice put his clothes and hands on the dresser, recognizing the regurgitated slob on his right knuckles. He washed it on his pants and carried limping legs into the bathroom. “Who in here?”
     “Me,” Grace said from the other side.
     “Wha’ you doin’?”
     “Gettin’ ready.”
He lounged his head against the door, “Fo’ what?”
     “For nothin’,” she stole time in the mirror, adding Vaseline to lips and fingers.

     Rip added the paper in his pockets. “I hate this shit.” He showed a sheet. “Why people write on it? I don’t want no pen on my shit.”
     Jacob inhaled, “Money is money.” Releasing smoke, he examined the air.
     Clouds were breaking, and Sun’s shine began to fix them. “At leas’ it ain’t rainin’.”
     “I kno’.”
     “It’s gon’ tomorrow too.”
     “No it ain’t,” Rip put the paper in his pockets. “That’s wha’ the news said.”
     “The new don’t kno’ nothin’.”
     “What? You a weather man now,” Rip smiled.
     “Might as well be. When they say it’s goin’ to rain, it’s sunny. When they say it’s goin’ to be sunny, it rains.”
     “You didn’t say that this week,” he looked at his friend.
     “They got lucky,” Jacob laughed. “You might be right though.”
     “Why you say that?”
     “Because tomorrow is Sunday.”
     “So…”
     “It’s always sunny on Sunday.” Rip gave a confused glare. Seeing it, Jacob continued, “You ain’t never noticed that?”
     “No,” Rip said shortly.
     “I’m tellin’ you, Sunday’s are always sunny.”
     “Wha’ about winter?”
     “In winter too,” Jacob paused, “It makes sense. S-u-n-d-a-y. Sunday.”
     “I kno’ how to spell,” Rip turned to the street and disregarded the idea.
     “Let’s bet.”
     “How much?”
     “Fifty.”
     “Ain’t got,” Rip patted his pocket.
     “You lyin’.”
     A loose smile came over him. Rip extended a hand, “Fifty.”
     “Fifty,” Jacob restated, stamped their agreement as official.
     As Rip shook hands, “You ain’t gon’ pay me,” he said.
     “Prob’ly not,” Jacob inhaled. A law car arrived at the street lamp. The passenger organized his shirt’s cuff. He straightened his tie’s knot. He reassembled the small shield over his left breast, exchanging a base stare at the two. “Ain’t nobody doin’ nothing.” Jacob spoke as he climbed the car trunk. “They need to gon’ ’bout they business.” He took a cigar out his pocket.
     “He was botherin’ me the other day.”
     Jacob lit, “For nothin’, huh?”
     “Always.”
     “I hate him,” his words were inside a grim playfulness.
     Rip smirked, “He hate you too.”
     “Prob’ly so,” Jacob tapped the amounting ash at his cigar end, going with the air before it hit the ground. “Ev’rytime he see me, look like he want to beat my ass.”
     “I kno’ how he feel,” Rip tossed the cigar from Jacob’s hand. Jacob raised his mid-finger. “It’s still lit.” Rip went to take it from the ground.
     Jacob kicked Rip’s side from his seat. He hopped onto the ground, dividing weight between the prancing tips of his toes. Rip sat the cigar in a wet water spot. Pant pulled on his waist, and hands stood up in front. An open fist was thrown; it touched Jacob’s face. Jacob placed three quick hands at Rip’s cheek. “Check it out,” Jacob lowered his fight. Rip revolved attention at the coming bodies.
     Reaching through the back window, Rip asked, “Wha’ ya’ll need?”
     “Two,” they replied in unison. Hands were exchanged, and paper was put into Rip’s pockets.

     In the kitchen’s sink, faucet water and oil went unmixed in a pan. At a very near distance, mop hairs soaked in a pink bucket, which bent on a single side. Egg batter and spilled grease floated on the surface of gray tinted water. Going back to the sink, Grace carried a dishtowel with skimmed yoke sewn into it. She turned the switch, letting the egg’s yellow untwine under warmer than lukewarm water. A rotten red wooden barrier held her attention outside the window. Some of its planks were not there, and playing children commonly ran through the holes. She recaptured herself. The towel was rung out. From the stove’s top to its handle and face, Grace slid her cloth while running faucet water ran behind the foreground. A glossy streak followed every stroke, making her return to the sink or use a different towel.
     With the mop staff cradled between her right shoulder and cheek, the bucket was taken outside. Both doors were allowed to be wide open, leaving ample space for pests of the night, mosquitoes and gnats. She emptied it next to the fence, changing the red rock next to it into burgundy. The mop head was strung on the fence’s spiked top. And its bucket was left on the porch corner when Grace took her body back in.

     An odd man strolled around the corner. His hair was really tightly bound and thick, resting on his scalp and face. Rip served him and the man left.
     “You seen ‘im before,” Jacob asked.
     “Nope.”
     “‘Nope,’” Jacob mimicked the inflection on Rip’s voice. “You ain’t never seen ‘im before?”
     “I said, ‘No.’”
     “You gon’ get us caught.”
     “If you scared, go in the house.”
     “Come on now,” Jacob responded.
     “Don’t trip.” Jacob began to part his mouth, bringing words to his lips. “Don’t trip,” Rip repeated.
Moon was painted fully. Sky was nearly clear. Trunks of cars rattled as speaker boxes pushed noise against them. Neighborhood children rode demotorized bikes; and lying over and on their yard fences, parents looked on. Jacob said, pointing at the gas station, “There go J.”
     “His shit look right,” Rip said inspecting the shiny, well-kept ride.
     “Don’t it.”
     “He got tha’ off the street.”
     “Hell naw,” Jacob spoke in disbelief.
     “Fo’ real,” Rip was still fixated.
     “How much?”
     “I don’ know.”
     “Who you hear tha’ from?”
     “Nobody.”

     He inhaled, “You don’t know what you talkin’ about?”
     “No,” Rip paused as a vehicle of females passed on the street, “you don’t know what you talkin’ about.”
     “I ain’t playin’ that game.” The two laughed at each other.
     “What you need?” Jacob asked to a very dark toned man.
     “Two,” he answered. Jacob extended to the back window. Discovering one, “Let me get one?” Without an answer, Jacob opened the backdoor. He reached over the seat closest to Rip’s side and grabbed one out of a plastic bag. “Here,” he turned and gave the man his request. “I be back,” Jacob began moving up the street.
     While facing the dingy couple, “A’ight,” Rip said.
     Crossing, Jacob recognized a truck as familiar and threw a peace symbol at it. He waited for safety, and then mounted the center divide. Following the tail end of a van, he met weather beaten painted cars and unmanned rooftops. Weed and mice made habitats. Unrecycled drinking containers and bags for chips were strayed on the sidewalk, forcing themselves against fences when wind decided to blow. Miniature plastic bags and guts of tobacco tubes went on garden-like gardens. Walking up his steps, Jacob acted strange at the appearance of a mop and bucket. Searching for keys, his cigar’s box fumbled out his pants. He picked it up and moved his body through the living room. “Where you goin’?”
     Strapping his backpack, Jason answered, “Jessy’s.”
     “Oh.” Jason moved beyond him. “Wait up.” At the corner dresser, Jacob refilled his bag and disappeared with Jason into the hallway. Knocking on their parent’s door, Jacob said, “We gon’.”
     Jason patted his pockets. His keys’ metal moved against one another. In a single line, he and Jacob moved down the steps. “Who was tha’?” Jason responded to his brother’s not at a passing vehicle.
     “I don’t even kno’.”
     “He knew you.”
     “No didn’t. We jus’ seen each other a couple of times.”
     “I wouldn’t talk to nobody I don’t know,” Jason words were straight and forward. Stepping into the street, Jason looked to see if the bus was arriving. “You kno’ what time it is?”
     “Nope.”
“It’s s’ppose to be here,” Jason turned to the sidewalk. Dropping his bag, Jason leaned his back against the bus signpost.
     “Buses always late.”

     A circular motion was turning everything. The living room walls rotated and the feet under him stepped outside a straight path. He walked into the heater, bracing his elbow on its metal visor. He opened the door. He asked, “Grace?”
     “What?” She stayed on her bed side. Fanning her hair away, she faced Maurice with a half dry face.
     “Nothin.’” Maurice went to the bathroom and spit in its sink. Stumbling through the hallway and brushing the heater once more, preparations for a meal were taken out the kitchen freezer. He dropped the contents into the pan, attempting to melt frost away. His hands were put around the refrigerators lower half, pulling and losing grip; Maurice fell to the tiles. Silence and seconds passed as he relaxed his head and watched the ceiling roam in circles. Rising along the countertop, his body bent and eye lids came down. He refocused over the sink, recalling the pan that it was holding. Unthawed meat was in it. And oily oval went over it. With the faucet still going, he moved back into the back.
     Grace had placed nightclothes on herself. Her face was clean, and hair settled on her ear like a pen or pencil. Laying back her right arm holding up her upper body, Grace crossed her legs at their knees. The door pushed hard against the wall. Startled, Grace forgot relaxation and asserted her night gown tighter around her chest.
     “What’s wron’ wit’ you?” Maurice’s hand went flush against Grace’s cheek.
     With a tender and slightly and blackened eye, she collected herself after Maurice’s slap. The back of his hand hit again, twisting Grace onto her stomach. He lifted the back of her gown and stripped under clothing, groping her and breathing gently whenever sedation displaced itself from her. As he dismounted, a jagged breath came from his wife’s mouth and smelled the pillow. The bedspread was placed over her, tucking her in. Maurice lit a cigarette and walked to his side of the closet. Grabbing a new wardrobe, he carried his body into the bathroom. He took a fast but thorough washing and returned. In the mirror, he reassessed his chosen outerwear and smiled. Taking a final look at his wife, he turned off the lights and left.

    Tasting the cigar plastic tip, Jacob tossed it. An ad for a motion picture motioned along with the bus’s moving rear end. He stopped and a reddish car turned in front of him. Down the street, its driver pushed the horn at a convention of bodies. Two teen aged had red on their faces from absorption of each other’s swings. The crowd urged them on, throwing them towards one another whenever one decided to turn away. Jacob shook his crown. He dug in his pockets, tearing the packaging from brown box. Putting flame to a cigar, he continued towards the intersection.
     On the outskirts of bunched people, Jacob took a stance. Yellow tape was being unrolled and pink flares were being broken. Officers pulled their vehicles up at each corner, trying to retain order. Across the divide, law dogs were about the overhand. Authorities took photographs. And a figure stretched on the four-wheeled stretcher. Jacob reversed his feet, bumping into spectators as he paced home.
     The water was still going, almost falling into the sink. Through the hallway, he reached and knocked on his parent’s room, “We’re back.”
     Grace began to wake. Her face pulsed. She rose from the sheets and noticed her one-half nakedness. Moving to the vanity mirror, Maurice began to drip down her legs. A confused expression went frantic over her bruised look. “Wait…I…” she thought to herself. Tears cascaded as she threw her fist into the person in front of her.
     Jacob chased the glass breakage. He knocked. “Mom? Mom?” he said into the closed door. He grew restless and placed it open. Grace was comforting herself on the floor. Legs were shut and pulled in protection towards her chest. Rosy blotches were soaking her nervous hands and the carpet immediately about her. Jacob rushed to the linen closest. Taking a body towels, he wrapped his mother’s bleeding and cover things he should not be seeing. He asked, “When?” Grace sat on the carpet, teetering herself in stillness. “Where’s Maurice?”
     “I woke up an’…”
     Jacob ran into the bathroom and ran water into the tub. He placed his hand beneath the faucet to try temperature and prevented water from returning into the pipes. “Come on, Mom,” he led her to the bathroom. “Keep your hands out until the blood shows.” Sitting at the tub’s neck, tears trickled down her face; he washed them away. Leaving her to tend to herself, Jacob stood abruptly and calmed his walk each step towards his parent’s bedroom. Pulling out the second drawer, he asked “Alright?” Grace sat still. “I’m goin’ out.”
     Before his motion was completely outside the bathroom, “Where?” she asked as tears began building in her eyes.
     “To get Jason. He should be done by now. You okay, right?”
     “Yeah,” she said softly.
     Jacob closed the door, returned to Grace’s bedroom, and hurried outside. He stepped into a three-quarter gone water circle. Checking down, he misread a water hydrant’s extended knob and grazed his thigh with it. Momentum pushed him to the ground. He scraped his palms. A passing man asked, “You a’ight?” He slightly smiled, discovering humor in Jacob misfortunate feet. He picked himself up without a reply and patted his waist.
     Opposing traffic was sluggish to him. Car radios at top volume were far and paused. Passing people moved mouths with no sounds. Jacob walked. He patted and clutched his waist. He walked. Over saliva, articles that belong in filth cans, grimy puddles, tiny bags, broken lighters, used books of matches, shattered and intact bottles, protection for sex and their wrappers. He walked.
     At a corner, there was a large metal canister. Old food and infant underwear broke seals of big black plastic bags, which reached the canister’s limit. A decaying façade was behind it and old tunes were seeping out its wooden wombs. Jacob parted with his cigars, leaving it half smoked on the ground. “Seen Manny?” A cluster of broken dreams shook their heads in denial, pleading for loose coins as Jacob walked away.
     “Dude? Dude?” A young man said from a two-toned car wagon. Its hood was missing and fumes sprayed out the dirty exhaust pipes. “Dude? Dude?” Jacob walked in front of the car’s head lamps, disregarding the voice with his name in it. “Hey, Dude?” he said once more, pressing his horn at Jacob’s feet that pressed upon the concrete walk. Jacob patted his waist. Paying attention to his thoughts, he bumped into a woman carrying bags of grocery. “Damn, watch where you goin,’” she yelled. He walked, splitting a group of five young men who were splitting a small container of drinking alcohol.

     Maurice pulled parallel to the curb. He released himself from inside, tracing truck front in order to open the passenger passage. She stepped out with higher than high heels and a black dress. Holding her hands, he pushed them behind her back. A smile came over her face while she backed into the shutting door.
     From the bending the sidewalk, Jacob saw his father taking an unknown woman into their home. He inhaled a final pull and lowered his cigar carefully. He moved his feet in haste. Coming after the recently closed front door, “Who’s this?” he asked.
     With indifference, Maurice answered, “A friend.” He stood quiet and upward, staring at his son.
     “Look,” Jacob said shortly. Maurice glanced at his wife’s coming into the hallway. Under its darkness, it was difficult to notice the swell on her face and the shredded skin on her knuckles. Arms were free alongside her side, looking at the woman next to her husband.
     “You can’t do this.” Three sharp sounds dispersed red dabble from Maurice’s body. He inched back and fell. The other woman failed to wipe blood off her Jezebel dress. The forty-five caliber hit the carpet a few feet from Maurice’s leaking chest. Jacob took a look at his mother’s hiding in the hallway corner. And he leaves.