Perfectly Good Trees
Condensation
He never got a napkin.
No matter if it was Krista, Ross or the new girl with the big ear holes.
They knew he didn’t like napkins.
This napkin had a logo on it.
Butch hadn’t even looked at the sign.
He was in Ascension less than a month, they discharged him and he headed to Wallace’s.
This place was too red, too shiny.
Same address, different location.
A girl with plastic tits handed him a plastic menu the size of The Declaration of Independence.
He looked at his phone, scrolled his messages.
There were a lot of get-well-soons, a lot of well wishes, a few prayers, some typed out and some sent as images.
He supposed he could tell this girl that he preferred no napkins, that his late wife thought they were a waste of a perfectly good tree.
He wondered if this place that seemed to have fallen on Wallace’s like the Emerald City falling on a farmhouse in Kansas kept the new girl.
What was her name?
Olivia.
A month ago she was so happy to have a job, and so happy to not give Butch a napkin.
No one told him Wallace was selling.
No one texted to say that the old place was no more.
Krista would never work in a place like this, with all its shine and all its…obnoxious red.
Ross was ready to move on, had some gig lined up with the forest service.
Butch wasn’t ready.
“Is Olivia here?”
“I don’t know any Olivias,” the girl said.
“She was new…’bout a month ago.”
“The staff at Brandaloon’s is all new,” the girl said. “They didn’t keep anyone from that last dump.”
Butch winced.
“I guess they didn’t,” Butch said. “Thank you.”
Butch stopped in The Palms, got a six pack and two scratchers.
Stopped in Van Dyke Dolla Store and More and got a camp chair.
A mile down Mt. Elliot Street he knew it wasn’t his best idea.
Empty handed he knew it wasn’t a great idea.
He stopped, lightened the six pack by a beer and kept walking.
Chest tightening a little, he could hear Cynthia tell him that second pack a day was craziness.
At the cemetery gate, he dropped the camp chair, gripped the wrought iron pole and caught his breath.
Her plot was back the way he came. He wished he had been young enough to hop the fence, save himself a quarter mile, but if he was that young-
“Scuse me. You okay?”
Butch looked toward the voice, nodding affirmative before he even made eye contact.
“Fine,” he said, looking at a woman probably older than him.
“Are you coming in or going out?” She asked.
Butch smiled.
“I think we’re all going in, aren’t we?”
The woman smiled back.
“Would you like a ride?”
With no on his lips, Butch nodded yes.
The woman put the car in park and walked around to open the door for Butch.
She pulled a tissue from her purse.
“Here. You’re perspiring.”
Butch said, “Thanks, no. That’s a waste of a good tree,” and wiped his sweaty forehead with his shirtsleeve.
“You don’t look so good,” the woman said, casting a disapproving eye at the six pack.
Butch straightened.
“Never looked good,” Butch said, “but the lady in plot 1602 didn’t seem to mind.”
***
Roulette Weal needs more paying subscribers to stay active. The archive of high quality fiction is immense. I have kept my promise of daily stories and plan to continue as long as I possibly can. I am at 348 paying subscribers and need to be at 400. If you do the math you will see that this is not an unreasonable goal or a lofty amount of money.
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A very melancholy story.
Once again, you've written a story that, although we've only seen a few minutes of Butch's life, we imagine an entire lifetime of stories within this story.
Well done, Jimmy!
Great line.
"A girl with plastic tits handed him a plastic menu the size of The Declaration of Independence."