“We’ve got to get out of here, John!” she said, scrunched up on the loveseat with her hands over her face. Married this long and I get the name. I totally agree. This time it was more madness across the fence at a house that may or may not belong to whoever may or may not be living there. How could they, anyway, without a toilet. A man I know supposedly sold it to them several years ago, although he still picks up his mail, comes and goes and gets stuff, and a long-dead Chevy van that any real new owner would have hauled away still sits there as it has since Jesus rode a frigging donkey into town. There’s been the strangest pounding and clattering going on for days, and last night someone parked an RV in the crowded space in front of the gate. There’s a woman living in it now. What the hell, I figure. Maybe they needed help moving the meth lab.
It’s the cheating, as my wife puts it. A lurking vibe. (There’s more than she knows.) No one ever really tells the truth. Old professional hippies with guns. Never trust the man or pay a licensed plumber. Hire “a Mexican” or do the job yourself because a pro will always rip you off.