The Consequences. That is not the only time I have experienced them. There have been other occasions where I have pushed the boundaries of my freedom. But I have never again attempted to rely on those extra few minutes by propping that door.
Surely I do not need to explain that Terry does not know about the gap. No one but me knows about the gap. And, as I would like to keep it this way, I will thank you in advance for your discretion.
You asked. I answered.
That is how I do it.
The Welina Mobile Park Is for Lovers
Cameron Cassmore blinks through the windshield, fending off relentless sunlight. Should’ve grabbed his sunglasses. Hauling his hungover ass up to Welina at the ungodly hour of nine o’clock on a Saturday morning . . . ugh. Parched, he grabs an open can from the cup holder of Brad’s truck and takes a swig. Some nasty energy drink. With a grunt, he spits out the open window and wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt, then crumples the can and tosses it onto the empty passenger seat.
“Gotta go deal with what?” Brad had blinked, his eyes bleary, when Cameron asked to borrow his ride. He’d crashed on Brad and Elizabeth’s couch after playing last night’s epic Moth Sausage experimental-metal show at Dell’s Saloon.
“A clematis,” Cameron had said. From his aunt Jeanne’s panicked phone call, it seemed her douchebag landlord was up her ass about her vines again. Last time, it had ended with the landlord threatening to evict her over that vine.
“What the hell is a clematis?” A half grin spread over Brad’s face. “Sounds kinda dirty.”
“It’s a plant, you idiot.” Cameron hadn’t bothered to add that it was a flowering and vining perennial, a member of the buttercup family. Native to China and Japan, brought to Western Europe in the Victorian era, and prized for its ability to climb trellises.
Why does he remember shit like this? If only he could cleanse his brain of the useless knowledge clogging it up. Gaining speed after turning onto the highway that runs out to Aunt Jeanne’s trailer park, Cameron rolls down all the windows and lights a cigarette, which he never does anymore, only when he feels like garbage; and this morning he feels like hot, steaming garbage. Smoke trails out the window and vanishes over the flat, dusty farmlands of the Merced Valley.
DAISIES BOB IN the breeze of Aunt Jeanne’s garden. She’s also got some huge bush full of white flowers, a twinkle-light veil-like thing, and this water fountain that he knows runs on six DD batteries because she asks him to help her change them, it seems like, every time he comes over.
And frogs. There are frogs everywhere. Little cement frog statues with moss growing in the cracks, frog flowerpots, a stars-and-stripes wind sock waving from a rusty metal hook featuring three grinning frogs decked out in patriotic red, white, and blue.
Seasonal frogs.
If the Welina Mobile Park had a prize for best yard, Aunt Jeanne would definitely be gunning for it. And winning. But the odd thing about her immaculate yard is its utter contrast with the disaster Cameron knows lies inside the trailer.
The porch steps creak under his work boots. A piece of paper juts out from the handle of the screen door. He lifts the edge to peek: a flier for the Welina Mobile Park Bingo Championship. He crumples it and stuffs it in his pocket. There’s no way Aunt Jeanne goes to those ridiculous things. This whole place is so awful. Even the name. Welina. It means “welcome” in Hawaiian. Sure as shit, this is not Hawaii.
He’s about to jab the doorbell, which is frog-shaped, of course, when shouting spills out from behind the trailer.
“If that old troll Sissy Baker would mind her business, no one would have these absurd ideas, now, would they?” Aunt Jeanne’s voice drips with menace, and Cameron can picture her standing there in her favorite gray sweatshirt, hands on her barrel-like hips, scowling. He can’t help but smile as he strides around the side of the trailer.
“Jeanne, please, try to understand.” The landlord’s voice is low, patronizing. Jimmy Delmonico. A first-class douchebag for sure. “The other residents are upset at the prospect of snakes. Surely you get that?”
“Ain’t no snakes in there! And who’re you to tell me what to do with my bush?”
“There are rules, Jeanne.”
Cameron trots into the backyard. Delmonico is glaring at Aunt Jeanne, who is indeed wearing that gray sweatshirt. Red-faced, she holds up a clutch of the dense, waxy vines that cover the trellis attached to the back of her trailer. Her cane, with its faded green tennis ball jammed on the tip, rests against the siding.