Man of a Few Words by Caroline Piermattei

                    Jarrett CC



Man of a Few Words


   Death chased Fran’s brother. They were her earliest memories, always there rumbling after him through horrible and terrific times as well.That’s just how it was for Homer and because of him, it was that way for her too. 
   She looked over at Pooch. He drove, blinking fast, squeezing the wheel with both hands. He was the quiet guy she’d been drawn to immediately. “Ninety percent of all talk is garbage.” He had said. 
   Like her, he had a strong Midwest accent that, like her he was deaf to it. She caught it as soon as he introduced himself using his full name, something she thought was odd until she learned his nickname. 
   This time Homer was not the problem. The problem was Pooches brother, Mike. 

   She wanted to say don’t worry, Mike’s not dying in his apartment on a Tuesday night;  he’s too loud to go quietly like that, slumped over in his lazy boy, lips blue, a popcorn kernel lodged in his windpipe. 
   More likely an irate husband would smash him with a bat or a family member would hurl him down the stairs on Christmas Day or maybe a mall cop would shoot him for shoplifting a two dollar bottle of aspirin.
   “Did you eat lunch?” She asked.
   “What? No.” Pooch cleared his throat. “It’s weird, him not answering all day. It’s not like he’d be doing anything important on a weeknight. Not where he couldn’t pick up his phone.”
    Or anytime ever for that matter. She thought. 
   “Yeah, he missed breakfast with the guys this morning, said he didn’t feel good. And now, they said he’s not at work. I mean, he’s not dating anyone. Not that I know of.”
    She turned to lower the window. “Count on that.” She murmured.
   Mike announced last Christmas that he preferred a paid prostitute to a girlfriend that required manners. At the time, his mother and twelve year old nephew had no response.
   “What was that?”
   “Nothing” She said. “I mean, do you have a key to his place?”
   “No. He took it from me a while ago. Gave it to Carla.”
  “Ah, Carla that he went on two dates with?” The scrappy, Puerto Rican beauty school student who was a smidge superior to the trainwreck of the Bosnian she replaced. 

   “Yes Fran.” He sounded exhausted. “That’s the one. She’s at school.”
   “I’ll run in for it.” Amends, she figured, for the wiseass remark.
   “Thanks.” 
   Carla stood out in the moving collage of highlights; her pure, virgin brown pixie was a sharp contrast to the tattoos crawling out of her collar, circling both ears. Her lips stayed straight, her eyes fixed ahead in a kinda perfect, badass way. “Hey.” Carla nodded. “He okay?” Smells of ammonia tinged flowers permeated from her.  
   “Umm...I’m sure.” Fran said. Were the tats ropes or snakes? “Isn’t he always?’
   Carla cocked her head. “He’s a bomb wait’in to blow.” 
   “Yeah.” She said. “The temper’s pretty shitty.”
   Mike had broken an ex-girlfriend’s nose and the ex-wife had to hide in the pantry with a screaming newborn so he wouldn’t get woken up - two of them screaming would have been too much.  
   Carla felt around her pocket. “Really unhealthy dude.” 
   “You think so?”
   Carla held the keys away from her chest waiting for Fran to open her hand.  “Yea, lives like shit.”
   “No answer yet?” She called towards the car. 
   “Naw.” 

   Pooch zigzagged  through the residential streets, meeting the speed limit, something he never did. “You drive like an old lady.” She’d laugh. 
   “I’m cautious.” He’d say. 
   Homer’s drivers license had been revoked since he was a teenager. If caught driving while intoxicated again he would be locked up for good. He gave up driving, choosing instead to drink daily and cook for the animals he rescued. “Come on Homer.” Fran had said. “Dogs don’t eat spaghetti.” She rubbed his bruised arm. “Maybe don’t let them jump on you like that.”
   “It don’t hurt.” He’d say. Bruises happened with advanced alcoholism. 
   “The doctor said your blood’s okay.” Fran had asked for the hundredth time.“Right?”
   “I haven’t seen Mike since Easter.” Pooch said. 
   “I know.” 
   Easter was filled with Mike’s shoplifting stories. “I wear baggy clothes and mumble to myself soon as I’m in the door. What?” He roared.     “If they think you’re nuts they stay away from you.” Old Aunt Rosey squealed with laughter and banged on the table. “But ya gotta be quick,” He stood spinning like a ninja on crack. “and light on your feet.” 
  Homer’s hands started shaking when he was twenty. They never stopped. By his thirties the abuse licked at his hips and knees. “Old football injury.” He’d laugh with a wide open mouth. The habit of lilac gum exposed..... the strong lavender scent a mask for the boozy smell.. 
    
   Pooch stopped in front of Mikes building. “I’ll go in with you.” She said.
   “No.” He whispered.
   She waited feeling like Pooch must have felt on that Monday morning last October when he called her at work. “Come outside.” He had said.
   “Why?” She asked into the dead phone.
   Flying through the hall, then down the stairs, she already knew. She flung open his car door, “What happened?” She was crying. 
   “Homer’s dead.” He said.Just like that. 
   Now Pooch got into the car. “Is he dead?” She asked.
   “No.” He said. “Thank God.”
    “Good for you.” 

​

Caroline Piermattei lives in the Chicago area with her family. When she is not writing she is  calmly explaining how necessary auto insurance is. Although her life in pictures is cute; sweet Pug, delicious meals and wacky friends, she has a deep side that comes out in her writing. Life can be dark and hard and this is what she thinks about while waiting for the pizza dough to rise.

---