By Tom Hedt

“Sometimes I shake myself and wonder why she even bothers me, but if heartaches were commercials, we’d all be on TV.”   -John Prine

I’ve always envied smokers. Those martyrs in their closed coven. Gathered in secret circles, whispering stories, bumming a light. Conspiratorial. I was never accepted. But with Barbara, it was different. 

We met at the boarding house on 2^nd & T, near old town in Eureka. We’d sit in the back at the old picnic table and talk, where she’d tell me stories of life perseverance. “I’ve been homeless in a lot of places. I was homeless in Salt Lake City, then I moved to LA to be with my daughter,” she stares into space, “that didn’t work out, so I ended up on a bus coming up here. I was homeless for a while, but the people at the Mission helped, and I got into this place. The people here are good here, it’s working out.”

Vic would walk by and say hi, but he wouldn’t linger. He and his wife Dana were on-site managers. They were Jehovah Witness; their ministry was to give people a safe place to live. I would stop by and visit when I paid my rent. His rifle and bayonet were mounted on the wall, over pictures of him in Vietnam. His stories were different. He told stories of the front lines, where he used those tools to accomplish the ends of our uncertain empire. At some point I told them I was getting rid of my old car, a Ford Taurus. They needed one, but didn’t have the money. I signed it over. knowing they’d pay when they could.

The place we shared was a two-story Victorian, blue with white trim. The cockroaches were incessant. I would find them on the dishes in the morning and lounging across the floor when I got home from work. The shared bathroom at the end of the hall was bad. A corroded faucet, stained sink, vinyl shower stall sealed with duct tape, and a toilet that always made you hesitate. I mentioned this to Vic. He gave me encouragement, and a can of Raid. 

Sitting outside with Barbara was gentle. Wisps of cigarette smoke, American Spirit smoked to the butt. Her threadbare blue dress. Her sandpaper voice. Silver hair pulled back, framing silver skin. The last time we talked, she was agitated. I asked what was going on, “I heard from my daughter; she might be coming up.” I said that sounded nice. She shook her head with a knowing smile, “no, it never turns out good.” 

                                                                                    *

I moved into my own place that summer. It was fall when Vic and Dana came to visit. They were leaving town and saying goodbyes. We stood next to the old Taurus, weathered gold with rusted chrome. I didn’t ask about the money; I knew they couldn’t pay. I did ask about Barbara. Vic looked at me with blank eyes. Dana spoke up “I’ve cleaned a lot of apartments, but this was the worst. I had to leave to keep from throwing up.”

Vic leaned toward me, “They had to come and take her away.”

“What happened, where did she go?”

 “I don’t know, probably some shelter. They pulled up in a black car and went up to her room. She walked out, and they drove off. That’s about it.” He walked to the back of the car. “You know, she was getting a bit paranoid. I guess she decided that someone was trying to gas her. She stopped using the shower, she brought a little tub into the room and washed herself there. It was terrible, filled with putrid water, overflowing on the floor. She stapled plastic bags everywhere; all the walls were covered. The smell was so bad, I can’t describe it. When we took down the plastic….the roaches…everywhere.” 

Dana came around the car and gave me a wooden painting of a pelican, “here, we’ve had this for a long time, I touched it up for you.” 

Vic opened the trunk of the Taurus. He pulled out a shotgun with a really short barrel. He handed it to me, “here ya go.”

He got in the car, rolled down the window and said, “Ok. Goodbye.” 

I stood in the street next to the golden Taurus, holding my pelican, and my sawed off shotgun. All I could say was “is this legal?”

He shrugged, “I don’t know,” and drove away.

*   *   *

Tom Hedt’s work has been published widely in journals, including: The Sijo International Journal of Poetry and Song, Cirque, Cathexis Northwest, The Tule Review, The Lilly Poetry Review, and elsewhere. His poetry compilation, Artifacts and Assorted Memorabilia, was published in September of 2020 by Cold River Press. He currently serves as the Associate Poetry Editor for Bending Genres. He lives in Eureka, California.