Page 71 - WTP VOl.VII#5

“You’re insane,” he said. “You’re no son of mine.”
“Good deal,” Russ replied. He felt like a character from a comic book who, previously believing themselves misun- derstood, finally realizes that they are a villain.
The orderly, descending Togus’ front stairs two at a time, was calling out to Russ. “Don’t worry, fella. It’s all right. We’re here to help, and that’s just what our program does.”
“He ain’t the soldier,” Albie cried. “The vet is in the car, his face swelling up.”
“You’re pathetic. You’re a maniac. Until a few minutes ago I’d a said feeling as ashamed as I do right now was impos- sible. Good lord give me strength,” Dominic cried, as the Togus employees eyed Russ.
“What’s going on here?” the security man asked.
“Fuck you, rent-a-cop.” Russ yelled. He drew a deep, cold breath, and then turned away to start down the road
on foot, never turning around to look, not even to see if Lucien ever actually exited Albie’s Toyota. He trudged towards Eastern Avenue, seething and muttering to himself. Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it. Nothing, not his father’s tears, his insurmountable debt, his own seemingly bound- less unhappiness—none of it—mattered anymore. Fuck it. Those two syllables made a more perfect sense to him with each repetition.
Eastern Avenue took him back towards the Kennebec
River. Eventually, Russ came upon a small VFW hall. A couple of trucks and late model American cars were parked next to a dilapidated shed and two barbecue grills made from old oil barrels. Inside the musty- smelling bar, four men, all of them middle-aged, were ignoring the ban on smoking in public places, an over- flowing ashtray sitting in front of them on the bar like a centerpiece. They hardly moved when Russ entered. One of the men was wearing a wide brimmed baseball cap that said VIETNAM VET on the front. He eventu- ally got up and went behind the bar, but upon finally looking up at Russ, said, “Members only, pal.”
Russ slid onto a barstool, like he hadn’t understood. “I’m not a member, or a vet, but I just got into a fight with my homeless vet cousin who didn’t want to
get out of the friggin’ car to go into Togus, where we brought him for help. Does that count?” he asked. “All I want to do is call a friend in Portland and wait for them to pick me up. Can I do that, please?”
“Got cash? Nobody just sits without drinking, and we don’t take plastic,” the bartender said.
“Cash? Yeah, I do.”
“Sorry to hear about your trouble, then,” the bartender said. “What can I pour you?”
Wormwood is a writer, musician, and award-winning journalist from Sanford, Maine. He currently resides in Greater Beantown with his wife, son, and a piebald wiener dog named Marvin.
Hope Balls
mixed yarn, mixed thread, mixed fabric, pva, canvas, acrylic paint, canvas
6'' x 6''
By Tara Kennedy 64