by Luke Boyd

“So, where you off to so early?”

“I’m going to work, Bill. Like every other morning.” This is the truth, basically.

“Ahhh, it’s good to see a young person with such a work ethic. You know I worked down at the Steel for fifty-three years. And the Steel’s been shut down ten years now.”

“Great, Bill. Yeah. I really gotta get to work though.”

I’m in my car now, starting to slowly roll my window up. He’s leaning halfway inside though. His teeth are butter yellow and slimy, but at least they’re his. His head shakes and bobs around like it’s on a spring when he talks.

“OK, Bill. I’m rolling up the window now. Tell Jeannie I said hi.”

Yeah I know she’s dead, but he still talks about her like she’s around. I think deep down he realizes she’s gone, but he doesn’t want to look like he’s all alone. Plus, he always talks to me about how often he still lays her. Sometimes if I’m coming home late from the bar or the bookstore, Bill will be outside standing on his stoop. At first when I crest the hill on my walk down past his house to mine I only see the glowing end of a cigar. I can usually smell it too, or hear him singing little snatches of Dean Martin or Sinatra. I try to stroll on by pretty quickly because I know he tends to be a follower. He’ll be standing there in his underwear, with or without a tee shirt. In the winter he’ll be wearing his old army boots, sometimes his fatigue jacket.

“Goodnight, Bill.”

And I’m gone.

Then I’ll feel a wispy arm clutching at my sleeve or I’ll hear him pattering or clunking (depending on the season) down the sidewalk after me.

“Hey, hang on there! Where you going so fast?” He’s always out of breath no matter how far he has to chase me and I don’t want the old guy to drop over dead on the sidewalk. Not in his goddamn underwear anyway. So I always stop.

“Oh Bill, hey. It’s really late. I gotta get to bed. I have to be up early tomorrow.”

“Ahhh. I used to have to get up early too, when the Steel was open. Time and a half for working weekend shifts.”

“Wow Bill, yeah, that’s great. Well, have a good night. Say hi to Joanie for me.”

I use different names Jeannie, Joanie, Mary, Claire, whatever. He doesn’t care, he’s just happy I play along. Like she’s not pushing up daisies two blocks over in the beer bottle littered cemetery.

“Say, you want to come in for a drink? I got some cognac I’ve been saving. Just the two of us, the Mrs. is asleep. I really gave her a working over tonight, boy. She might be out for a few days.”

He slaps me feebly on the shoulder like this is some sort of fraternal guy joke just between us. His hand feels like a raw-cold chicken wing.

“Aww I don’t think so tonight, Bill. It’s late already. Had I known earlier, then maybe…”

“Heh!” He kind of shrinks away and I know what’s coming next. Old people are always guilting you into spending time with them by talking about how they’re going to be dead soon. Bill’s really, really old. Like, he talks about the Great Depression old. “Okay suit yourself. Just keep in mind, I’m not always going to be around you know. The Mrs. and I we might be moving down to Florida. I got in on some prime land down there, you know they’re practically giving it away. Got me a ten acre lot in the Everglades for three thousand bucks and, hang on here, I got the brochure here in my pocket…”

He doesn’t have pockets. He’s wearing just his underwear. No place for a brochure.

“OK, Bill. I’ll come in for a drink. But let me run down to my house first. I’ll be right back.”

I start jogging down the hill towards my place because, for real, I have to get up at like 5:30 in the morning. He’s yelling down the dark paved slope to me, “Hurry up. I have a few of those skin movies you like on tape, too. I’ll put one on the rewinder.”

And then I’m in my house, dropping off a few things, trying to delay as much as possible because sometimes Bill will just forget he talked to me and go inside to sleep. So I consolidate a few piles of books and mail into a larger pile and go take a piss. If I turn my head just a little bit I can see right across the street to this apartment-style house where some college kids live. Usually this late at night there’s always some sort of action—a fight, or a drunken makeout session, maybe a kid puking in the gravel. Tonight it’s quiet but I can see through the shades that the lights are on downstairs. It’s the kind of soft, flickering light only tv makes. As I’m zipping up I figure there’s probably some lucky kid in there curled up on a ratty couch with some hot piece of ass tight up against him. And the couch is probably stuffed full of crumbs, food wrappers, and other girls’ underwear.