Stetson dead ends at some railroad tracks they don’t use anymore.
The court case over what’s gonna happen to the land is 77 pages long so far.
Byron just felled a sixth tree, past the tracks.
He looks back at the four houses on Stetson, between Monroe and the railroad fence.
His father owned all four. Byron grew up in the last one, closest to the tracks, the 6:35 Northern oil freight his school alarm for years.
Dad has been dead a week, conversational echoes like the balls striking a wall in a racquetball court.
Pop!
“The toilet leaks because the bitch is too fat.”
Sprong!
“Ellerbee in 2145 hung his junkie self last night.”
Thwop!
“Do those people think that’s music?”
Dad’s list of tenant rules was screwed into the kitchen wall of each of the small, dirty bungalows.
There were 24 rules listed, typed out and numbered, done individually because some of the entries had different white out marks.
Dad’s rules had existed since manual typewriters.
His persistent dislike of his tenants had lasted all of Byron’s life.
They moved in, had kids, moved out, caused leaks, broke walls.
They planted flowers, trimmed hedges, one put up a plastic Bambi.
Parties were against the rules.
Byron cut the tree in threes.
He’s breaking the law, but he doesn’t care.
2150 broke their lease the minute they heard Billy Zubow died. The rented moving truck was there the next morning.
Cassie, who moved into 2145 after Ellerbee committed suicide, was getting too old to navigate the stairs.
Byron refunded her security deposit and got his cousins to help her move into FairWorth Estates Retirement Living.
Tully in 2140 loved Byron’s idea.
Byron’s gonna stay in 2155,fingers crossed til his knuckles are white that they make the train tracks into a bike trail.
And the three rental bungalows don’t have twenty four rules anymore.
They have one, in Byron’s mind: “Don’t be a dick.”
Byron knows his dad was a dick.
He felt bad for the people who lived on his tiny block, under his dad’s shitty rules.
No parties.
No live Christmas trees.
Byron’s gonna Air BnB the two vacant houses, and he and Tully ripped down the fences between them, took the metal to the scrap yard.
He wants people to be comfortable, happy, do their thing.
He’s gonna have bonfires every weekend.
Byron looks out over the unused train tracks.
When he was little, he used to have nightmares that a train would derail, explode, he’d wake up trapped in a wall of flame.
It never happened.
He conquered his fear of fire, and mortality conquered his father.
Byron told Tully to turn up his music as loud as he wants.
Told Tully he hopes he meets his life partner around the bonfire.
His dad hated people.
“He hated me for sure,” Tully says.
Byron takes a whetstone to his wood chopping ax.
He’s never used a whetstone before, but he’s learning.
Told Tully, with a smile, he’s thinking of calling their little community “Crash and Burn.”
***
Nice. I’ve been thinking a lot about this idea of how we reconcile the lives of our parents once they die with our history with them, and who they really were given their circumstances … this is a nice short exploration of that idea.
Ahh, thus the inspiration. Sorry for your loss bro… between ages of 18 and 20 I did a lot of LSD with a lot of punks. For some reason people want to pour out their hearts to me everywhere I go. I’m the guy where the grandmother next to me in the grocery store starts telling me about her hysterectomy.
Anyway, The stories I got as a late teenager dropping acid with punk rockers were mostly about their childhood history with their parents. I had my own history, and at 58 years old I’m still barely working it out. I feel like there is a lot of fertile ground for stories like this. Good job on this one Jimmy.