Free Something Of A Kind by Miranda Wheeler Page A

playfully, round hoots popping from
his lips.
    His long hair slapped at his shoulders, falling away from his face
as he rocked with hacking chuckles. Noah wrinkled his nose as the
odor of bargain booze permeated the air, the overwhelming stink
like cheap cologne.
“Man, you're lit. Go home, you old drunk.”
    “Be nice to an old man, now!” he howled, shaking his head and
wiping tears from his bloodshot eyes. The worn sleeves of his denim
button-up were rolled to his elbows. The shirt was a similar wash to
his rugged, paint-covered jeans, looking like the pairings of a suit.
“Barely sixty and wearing the Texas tuxedo,” Noah smirked,
summoning the energy to clap Tony's boney shoulder.
     
“Finest in town.” He tugged the faded collar. “Ready for the
coffin when it takes me.”
     
“Oh, don't talk like that, man.”
     
“A bare-assed babe, milady’s sour bastard!” He crooned.
    “Sweet suicide, never alone, when I deserve to die.” Noah half
-
sang, halfsnickered. He raised an invisible glass to Tony’s old lyric.
It was a shock to most that the steely dropout harbored a tortured
poet alongside the chained up old hag. Tony played every instrument
known to man, and collected most from his travels. He had a song
for every woman and more than a few drunken verses were shared
with the world.
    “My, my, honey child.” Tony yowled, his voice carrying into a
belly laugh. His hands covered his skinny ribs as they popped
through the fabric, into view. As he moved, he stumbled. Catching
himself, he managed a stiff twirl, running in a slanted circle, arms
outstretched like the wingspan of a bird. “A thousand cities, the
lower forty-eight, two babies too many, hot in the veins. Busted
jugular, Oh, my, Dee. Sweet, sweet suicide, all for me, alone, alone,
I deserve…I deserve.”
“Go home, Coot. I have no idea what you’ve been drinking. I'm
headed out, alright? I'll see you soon.”
     
“Gotta call the girlfriend.” He teased, stumbling backwards.
Noah sighed, closing the distance to the diner.
     
At least he’s still on the sidewalk.
    In the silence of the night, he could hear waves crashing on the
other side of the building. The boards of the porch ramp seemed too
loud, even the
tiles in the dark
restaurant squeaking. Moving
through the kitchen, he entered the foyer connecting his home, a
lamp lit beside Mary-Agnes.
    She seemed invested in a yellowing paperback until he entered.
It dropped in a heap on the floor as she covered her thin lips with a
finger, shushing him as her thumb jerked towards the couch. Lee
released a whooping snore, nearly on queue.
    “Sarah told me everything,” she w
hispered proudly, rocking
thoughtfully in her creaking chair. “I think it’s very nice you were
trying to get Doctor Greg’s daughter to make friends. That girl's so
lonely. Did you know her mama passed?”
    “I did.” Noah knew better than to question his sister’s judgment
on restricted information. He wasn’t overly concerned with keeping
Mary-Agnes current and informed.
Did she really think it was that big of a deal? She confessed an
altered story before I was even caught.
     
“And the Glass-man. He's no ray of sunshine. Ice cold, that one.
Nosey too.”
    “I don't think she likes him much, either,” he agreed, unwilling
to argue. Mary-Agnes was a strong woman, hardened by years of
poverty and individual oppression. Still, every year lines curled into
her chubby face was another of concern. His mother was too old for
mothering, and she seemed increasingly fragile.
    “That's horrible,” she chastised. Pursing her lips, her wrinkled
cheeks puffed with air. Her eyes darted out the window as her face
flooded with recollection. “The pictures outside, Tony's paintings,
the stains are bad.”
“I think it's mostly salt,” he said, making gradual steps towards
the stairs.
     
Wait for a pause and run for it.
    “Salt and dirt. You're gonna spray 'em right?” she asked,
stuttering