Sausage, Eggs, and a Shotgun

 The sausage links were just finishing up when Kenny came roaring into the drive with his '71 Ford Ranger.

  Yup...Like clockwork.  He hasn't changed a bit.  I scoop up some eggs and a few sausage links onto a plate and set it on the table for him.

 When we were kids Kenny had this nasty habit of waking up at the ass crack of dawn. The early riser would then wake everyone else up in the process as he turned on the radio, banged around pots and pans, and slammed kitchen cabinet doors shut while cooking his breakfast.  I might have been able to forgive him had he cooked breakfast for me as well.  But he only cooked enough for himself; the shit head.

 Subtlety is a form of expression that I believe Kenny may be capable of but rarely feels the need to use. He is a boisterous, up and at 'em morning person who simply can't fathom why anyone would want to sleep in and miss the beginning of yet another glorious day.

 Yeah, whatever you say there sunshine....

 I got up early just guessing that Kenny would be showing up. (It helped that I couldn't sleep anyway) I had no desire to wake up to the sound of him over enthusiastically banging on the door, yelling my name, then asking me why in the hell I locked my door after I let him in.

 “Well, look at you.  You even got me a plate ready. That makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.” Kenny says, smiling as he stomps into the kitchen and helps himself to the coffee. (As if he needs coffee)  “Hell, I brought a breakfast casserole thinking I was going to have to rouse you out of bed.  I'll just stick it in the fridge and you can have it some other time.”

 “Oh, well thank you.”

 “Welcome.”

 “You want any cream or sugar with your joe?”

 “No, no....Black is good.”

 “OK.”

 “I'm surprised you don't have a pot of rice going.”

 “I haven't pulled the rice cooker out of the box yet.” (I can't find it...)

 “Uh-huh.”

 I grab a mug and help myself to a cup of coffee.  I hadn't had any yet in the hopes that by some miracle Kenny wouldn't show up with the rising of the sun. Then I could just eat and go back to bed.

 “So how long before you start your new job?” asks Kenny

 “I actually started a couple of weeks ago, and it's not a new job, just a transfer.”

 “Damn, that's a long commute from your old house.  How do you like the new environs?”

 “It's not the greatest in terms of job satisfaction, but I can walk in, put on my headphones, and write code all day without anyone bothering me.”

 Kenny smirks, “Shocker.....Jumping right in and making new friends I see.”

 “Kenny, I can't just walk in and talk everyone's ear off the way you do.....I need time to settle in.”

 “Alright...Alright....” 

 Oddly, Kenny let the matter die.  He's usually all over me about my social and emotional constipation. 

 We couldn't be any more opposite if we tried.  Kenny can talk to anyone in his smooth and easy going manner.  He speaks his mind and is not afraid to be open and honest with people, friends and strangers alike; and, as I had mentioned previously, he can do it all with a smile that can diffuse just about any heated conversation.  He makes it all seem so effortless…

 Still, I pity any fellow introvert who may get stuck sitting next to him on a long plane ride.

 Me?  If I don't know you, I'm not talking to you.  Hell, even if I do know you I still may not talk.  I struggle mightily with small talk and will try to do whatever I can to avoid it.  I keep a pair of headphones with me at all times.  If I fear a conversation, especially with a stranger, is imminent I pull my headphones out of my pocket, plug into my phone, turn on my music and tune out.

I don't go out with friends after work.  I fear the bar scene. I don't (voluntarily) go to company parties.  I don't go to weekend barbecues.  No --- I go straight home to either read a book or watch a movie. 

I'm the kind of person that craves --- NO --- needs down time.  It's not unusual for me to shut myself up into my bedroom for hours at a time; just me and my book.  I can literally go all day without uttering a word to another living soul.  Kenny thinks it's psychotic.

 It takes me a long time to trust someone or to become comfortable enough to hold a casual conversation.  Well, unless that conversation has anything to do with baseball; then I can talk to just about anybody.  I for the life of me can't figure out why but baseball is the one thing I can talk about constantly. The game is my sanctuary, my comfort zone.  I just love the game of baseball....

 Kenny points to my hand, “Still got your wedding ring on, I see.”


Didn't we just talk about this last night?  The one thing about Kenny that drives me up a wall is how he can't let something go.  He is relentless and obsessive in his desire to see or talk things through....

But  I guess that's the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it? I'm not exactly "letting go" myself now, am I?  Yes, I am still wearing my ring.

 “The divorce isn't final yet.  So until then I'm still married.”

 Kenny nods his head slowly and asks quietly, “And still hanging on to hope?”

Brother, I'm ready to change the subject whenever you are.......

 I fiddle with the ring on my finger for a moment before I answer.

 “Yeah, something like that.”

 “Well, I'll hope with you.” says Kenny, “I like Lacey.....It's just not the same without her.”

 “Yeah, well, she deserves someone better than me.”

 Unexpectedly, Kenny yells, no screams at the top of his lungs, “WALLOWER!!!!!” --- and he does it with great gusto....Like a drill instructor who tenses up every single muscle in his body as he gets nose to nose with a new recruit.

 Caught completely off guard, I jump and spill my coffee....

“Well, good morning!!!” screams my burning crotch….

 “AH......DAMMIT.....HOT!!!!”

Kenny is most amused as I shoot out of my chair, screaming in a new language and doing the stupid man dance.

 “Christ,” I yell, “What in the hell is the matter with you?”

 Kenny calmly sits back in his chair and takes a sip of his coffee before he answers.  “My wallow alarm went off.”

 “You know, you can be a real asshole sometimes.”

 “Aye, but what a wonderful, well-meaning asshole I am.” Why is he talking like a pirate?

 Kenny rises from his chair and begins opening kitchen cupboards.  “Go change your pants.  I'll fill up a to-go mug.”

 “To-go mug?  For what?” I ask.

 “I brought some guns.  Let's go shoot some clay.”

  ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 There are certain things in this world that are constant.  The passing of time, death, taxes, etc., etc....Kenny's ability to shoot and my incredible gun toting ineptitude.

 Kenny has yet to miss a clay.  I have yet to hit one.  I'm a disgrace to small town rednecks everywhere.

 Each orange clay launched from the old skeet shooter hovers in the air and only breaks if it hits the ground just right.  If a clay were a living breathing being it would fly before me devoid of stress; comfortable in the knowledge that the dumb ass fumbling with the shotgun has no real chance in hell of hitting it. 

 Frustration begins to set in.....

 “I'm wasting your ammo, dude.”

 “How long has it been since you fired a weapon?”  asks Kenny

 “Since before I got married.”

 “Well, then it's understandable.  Just keep shooting.  You'll settle in.”

 Ten minutes later I finally hit my first clay.  The way I whooped you would have thought that I had won the lottery.

 “Hallelujah!!!!  I now suck less.”

 “Oh, yeah,” says Kenny, “What does Les think of that?”

 “Shut up.”

 After a while we set our guns down and go looking for all the clays that I missed in the hopes that we may be able to find a few of them intact.

 “Have you heard from Kirk?” I ask.

 Kirk is the third boy of four in our family.

 “Yeah, I talked to him last night.” answered Kenny, “He decided to take summer classes and won't be coming home from college this summer.  He's bound and determined to graduate as fast as he can.”

 “Oh, yeah?  What's his rush?”

 “You remember Mr. Rollins, our old high school science teacher?” asks Kenny

 “Rotten egg Rollins?  How can you forget a guy like that?”

Mr. Jimmy Rollins (no relation to the baseball player) is a teaching legend....Well, at least in these parts he is.

 Once a school year Mr. Rollins would mix together a concoction of chemicals that would literally make the entire high school reek of rotten eggs.  He took immense pleasure in watching all of his fellow faculty members open windows in a vain attempt to acquire some badly needed fresh air.  It was the one time of year you could actually hear faculty swear openly.  I wonder if Mr. Rollins set off his rotten egg concoctions before he made tenure?  I'm guessing no.

Mr. Rollins was the junior high football coach --- which became the birthplace of the greatest plays in our towns history.

Mr. Rollins wasn't very tall, maybe 5'8"?  But he was all of three hundred plus pounds; a large, bowling ball of a man.  One season, the class above me devised the now infamous play known as the "Jimmy Dean, Pork, Pork, Dive."

It was a kickoff play (so I'm not sure where the dive comes in but, hey, who am I to ask?).  Once the ball was in the air the entire special teams unit veered hard to the right --- and dog piled an unsuspecting Mr. Rollins standing on the sidelines. 

I have not idea how much trouble they got into but every one of them swears that it was worth the punishment.....And they didn't dog pile him because hey hated him.  No.  Quite the opposite.  They loved Mr. Rollins.....Kind of a strange way to show your affection if you ask me.


 “Well,” said Kenny “Mr. Rollins is waiting for Kirk to graduate before he retires.  It is pretty much a foregone conclusion that Kirk will be the new high school science teacher once Rollins goes.”

 “Ah. The perks of living in a small town.”

 “Yeah, verily.”

 “And how is Iraq treating Keith?” I ask.  Keith is our Marine and baby of the family....

 “Not a clue.” answers Kenny, “He's just like you.  He doesn't communicate worth a shit.”

 “Ah.”

 “You know, it wouldn't kill you to pick up a phone every once in a while.”

 “Yeah, I know......But I would still appreciate it if you didn't give out my number.”

 “Yes, Mr. Hermit.  I assure you that only family members have your phone number.  No one will be calling you.  However I can't promise that no one will drop by your place for a visit.”

 “What?  Who knows that I'm here?”

 “Everybody.”

 “Dude, you're the only person I told that I was coming back.  I didn't want the whole town to know that I'm here.”

 “Kyle, have you forgotten how a small town works?” asked Kenny, “I know you didn't want  me tell anyone, but I had to tell Becky who I found to rent her place.  And you know as well as I do that if I tell her to keep it a secret it will not only be all over town within ten minutes but people will come snooping around just to see what all the secrecy is about.  Your business is everyone's business here.....Remember?”

 “Damn....Unfortunately, yes I do. ”

 “Oh, don't worry.   I have it all taken care of.  I believe I have at least bought you a little time to yourself.”

 “Yeah, how so?”

 “I told Becky about your marriage falling apart.  That you're taking it hard and basically walking around, unwashed, slobbering and peeing in mason jars.  After I told her that I had to promise her that I would be at your house at least twice a week to make sure you weren't tearing anything up.”

 I didn't even bother to ask Kenny if he was pulling my leg.  Chances are he wasn't; that's just the way Kenny talks.

 “Thank you.....I think. Is that why the deposit was so high?"

"Possibly."

 "You know it’s good thing I'm not looking for a date here because you just killed any chances that I had of that.”

 “Yes, your complete isolation is at least temporarily assured.”

 Kenny  pulls a small pistol out of his jacket.  I mean real small.

 “Hey, check this baby out.”

 “What is it?  Does is actually work?”

 “Oh, yes, it definitely works.”  Kenny hands me the pistol.  It's so small that it fits inside the palm of my hand.  “This is a Derringer single shot pistol.  Some people refer to it as a palm pistol.”

 “Yeah, I can see why.”

 “Would you like to fire it?” Kenny asks, “I can set up a clay on that stump over there.”

 “Um, yeah, okay.  Why not.”

 “Great.”

 As Kenny sets up the clay I inspect this small, odd looking firearm.

 “This thing looks ancient.”  I say.

 “Yeah, it's been around for a while.” Kenny answered, “Here, let me chamber a round for ya.”

 Kenny hands back the pistol.  I try to take aim at the clay sitting upon the stump.  But the pistol is so small that I'm having a hard time getting a firm grip on it.

 “This is awkward.  Is there a certain way that I'm supposed to hold this?”

 “Nah, your doing fine.  Go ahead and take a shot.”

 I wasn't convinced, but went ahead and turned my attention to the target.  It just felt strangely unsecure in my hand.

 I really didn't take much of an aim; there's no poing.  With a regular pistol I can't hit he broad side of a barn so I knew my chances of hitting the clay with this funky little piece of weaponry were about as good as a snow balls chance in hell.

 I slowly squeeze the trigger.  As soon as the pistol fires I lose my grip, the recoils sends it flipping end over end and the Derringer buries itself into my forehead.

 “PAIN!!!  AH, SHIT!!!!!  AAAGHHHH!!!!!!”

 Kenny laughes as he pats me on the back.  “Well, I think that's enough shooting for one day.  What do you say we grab a beer and hang out on your old front porch?”

 “Shit.....Do I have a bruise?”

 “No, you're fine; just a little red mark.”

 “Dammit....Yeah, a beer sounds good.  Let's go.”

Nowhere, America: Starting Over

STARTING OVER

 I don't want to do this. 


I have never been good with change; even it that change is for the better. If a change in life were to be represented by a large, fierce predator -- say a lion --- then I would be that new born clueless baby gazelle just struggling to get on it's feet.  I will need someone else's help if I have any hope of surviving.

Now let's say that the lion represents a GOOD change in my life. This change that I am going through now is definitely not a lion.  I'd say it's more like a rabid hyena who also happens to be a psychopath.  Worse, I am alone and peeing down my leg.  Good times....

Man, I really need to get off the crusty old couch and get moving.  I have no idea how long I've been sitting here but there's a good chance that my ass may take root if I don't do something soon.

What box did I pack my bedroom stuff in? More importantly why didn’t I mark any of the boxes?


Oh, I know why....Because I was running away.  It's hard to get properly organized when you're retreating with your tail between your legs.

    Misery is a peculiar thing in that, like people who cut themselves, it is self-destructive habit that does nothing to solve problems.  Yet, most people (myself included)  are so caught up in that large crushing vice known as depression that we make absolutely no effort to get away from it.  Instead we tend to embrace it,  to cling to it as if to say we absolutely deserve the dark gray drizzling shit storm of melancholy we find ourselves neck deep in.


Except this time I feel I richly deserve this wretched state that I now found myself in.  I had a really good thing going – a good job, a nice house complete with man cave, a loving, devoted wife; and I pissed it all away. 


No, that’s not descriptive enough. Let me try that again.

 I didn't just burn the bridge.  I napalmed it repeatedly, incinerating away all evidence of love, hope, and a bright future......I deserve my misery.


You know what else? It is truly amazing how depression just saps every ounce of energy that you have. I’ve been staring at my suitcase for what, an hour now? 


Of course, given how things have been going of late, I should just be happy that I got everything out of the truck and into the house.


     I mean, seriously, why can't I just be happy?  Why do I find it so hard to be just another everyday Joe; working, paying his bills ---- talking to people?  Talking to people.....  Why can't I simply talk to people?


     And as my marriage crumbles – no, not crumbles – it’s over, of that I am certain, I sit on this dusty old couch and wonder why, of all the places to fall back to,  did I come back to my old home town? My only ambition as a clueless, stuttering, neurotic teenager was to get the Hell out of here.  I wanted to escape Nowhere, America; I wanted to leave behind, the dirt roads, horses, cows, pickup trucks,  all my insecurities and past failures and find a place where I felt like I belonged.


(Yes….That went well)

       I wonder where I put the coffee pot?  I hope I didn’t break it. Better yet, where's the Crown Royal? Why in the Hell didn't I mark any of these boxes? 


     Ah, yes....I remember why I came back here.  As much as I don't like it -- here is familiar.  I guess it’s kind of like that abused lover who just keeps leaving and then going back to that dysfunctional relationship. And much like that sad individual, the thought of picking up the pieces in a new town makes me uptight......Well, okay, it makes me extremely anxious.


     BAM BAM BAM!!!!!


Shit.....That sudden noise wasn’t good for the heart.


     “Kyle!!!!  ARE YOU HOME?!”

    That would be Kenny, my little brother and polar opposite. Picture if you will, an energetic socialite who's short stature artfully hides the Thor like strength that he possesses. Now picture Thor as a child with all the destructive powers coupled with A.D.D.  See where I'm going with this?


Kenny's hyperactive life didn't start out that way.  A lethargic child with purple lips was found to be iron deficeint by the local witch doctor and, thanks to Kenny, I will never eat another piece of liver for as long as I live.


But the liver worked well --- perhaps too well. As a kid I nicknamed him "the creep" because he destroyed every toy that I owned.  Those Star Wars action figures I had been collecting?  Beheaded.  My bike? Torn down into several pieces.  My cheap plastic baseball helmets that I tried to take care of?  Cracked and shattered.

As a teenager if there was something shattering, burning, or exploding then there was a good chance that Kenny was involved.....


And now --- he is the local law enforcement.  Go figure....


BAM! BAM! BAM!

     “Hold on!  I'm coming.”


     “Dude, what in the Hell are you locking the door for?”
   
     “Old habit, I guess. C’mon in.”

     Kenny smiles as he steps through, no, lunges through the door, invades my personal space, and knocks the wind out of me with a big bear hug. As if crushing my rib cage wasn’t enough he added a huge slap on the back just to make sure that all air had sufficiently escaped my bruised lungs.   (Gasp)
    
“Well, you're not in the big city anymore bro.  You can relax a little.”


(Relax….Right)
    
     “Wait, aren't you a cop?  Aren't you supposed to be out and about the village preaching safety, security alarms and, in your case, arming yourself to the teeth?”


     “Not right now, I'm off duty.”


     “Off duty?  Then who’s watching the village?”


     “The city council was kind enough to hire a weekend officer.  I got the weekends off now.”


     “Well aren't you a little disappointed there, Barney?  Does that mean that you get to take the bullet out of the gun for a couple days  out of the week?”


“Eh heh, eh heh.....You're a scream...”


     Kenny looks around the old, dusty, stale smelling house and surveys the situation.


     “It's been quite some time since anyone has lived here.” says Kenny.


     “Yeah, I can tell.  The place smells like it's been closed up for a while.”


     “Uh-huh….So have you talked to Becky yet?”

     “No, she left the key to the house in her mail box.  Ol' man James left the gate open so she's helping him herd all his cows off the road before someone gets to make an insurance claim.  By the way, I really appreciate you pulling strings and getting this place for me.”


 “Oh, no problem.  You know, I could have brought some help and....”


 “No,” I interrupted, “I got this.”


 Kenny crosses his arms and snorts, “Not that I’m surprised, but you're really going to just hole yourself up in here, aren't you?”


 “Ken, I just need time to think things out.  I'm not even really sure how long I'm going to stay.”


 “Kyle, let's not lie to each other,” Kenny said in a serious tone that only rarely makes an appearance. But when it does it demands respect. “You're running away, just like you did after high school.  Except this time there is no Lacey to guide you through the muck and shit.”


 He's right --- and I hate that he’s right. I give no response. I just don't have an answer for him. I may have an answer for him a few hours from now when it won't do me any good.  But, that's just how my brain works.  I have never been quick on my feet.


  I really, really want to be angry with him but he speaks the simple truth.  Sometimes I think he knows me better than I do.  I look away and quietly pretend to be searching for something in one of the bazillion unmarked boxes lying around the house.  Why didn't I mark any of these boxes and how did I end up with so much shit?


 “Kyle,” Kenny says as he wanders off into the kitchen, “I'm not going to let that happen.  I'm not about to sit at my house and think about you and your misguided attempt to shut out the rest of the world.”


 Kenny, being the hyper active busy body that he is, starts rummaging through boxes and putting things away in the kitchen, “I don't want my big brother to end up being some nutty old hermit that lives in a run down shack at the end of an old dirt road.”


 “So when did you become my mother?” I ask in an admittedly lame attempt at sounding offended and pissed off.


 “I'm not your mother.  Her tits are bigger. (Thanks, oh so much, for that visual) Although I think I may be catching her” Kenny grabbed himself, “Whadya think? A cup?”


  I smile in spite of myself.  Kenny has a way of defusing almost any tense situation with a silly comment and a big grin.  It's no wonder he's so well liked.  There are times when I am insanely jealous of his ability to talk to anyone, anywhere, at any time.  He has a true gift.


 And Kenny, by the way, is full of shit....He works out every day and is chiseled.


 “I suppose you have a plan?” I ask despite my insane desire to not know.


 “Why, it's funny you should ask.” Kenny says as he finds the Crown Royal stash and proceeds to take the box outside.


 “Hey, where are you going with that?” I ask.


 “You, my friend” Kenny says, his voice trailing off as he heads for the front door,  “are a horrible, rotten, self-loathing mess when you drink whiskey.  It may be your drink of choice but you simply cannot handle it.”


 “Dude, are you taking my booze?  That stuff isn't cheap, you know.”


 “Fear not, I’ll put it to good use. Hold on, I'll be right back.”  Kenny exits the house, the screen door slamming behind him.


 Outside, I can hear the locust droning on and on.  It's been a long time since I've heard that noise and, to be honest, I've actually missed it.  You just don't hear that kind of stuff in the land of concrete and traffic horns.  I actually find myself unwinding a little bit.  Not much, but a bit.


 Kenny returns with a box and......a dog.


 “Kenny, what the hell is this?”


 “Well, in the box are a couple of cases of welcome home brew; memories from a younger day.”


 Kenny holds up a case of Keystone Light; beer I haven't had in ages.


 “Don't you know light beer is for people who like to pee a lot?”  I ask.


 “Sorry, bro, Guinness Stout isn't exactly a hot commodity here.”


  “This is not a fair trade; Crown Royal for Keystone?”


  “You’ll get over it.....


 “Nice.....Ok, and what about that?”  I ask as I point to the mutt standing at Kenny's side.


 “This," says Kenny as he does some sort of goofy Vanna White thing, " is Tripper. He is a beagle and he is your new best friend, Charlie Brown.”


 “Oh, no, I don't need a dog.”


 “Well, you git him anyway.  Marlo has informed me that three dogs and a cat is too much. Think of it as fuzz therapy, a replacement for your whiskey, and doing a favor for your little brother.”


 Shit......


 “Is he house broken?”


 “House broken, has all of his shots.  You can let him out without a leash and he will come back home. Just listen for him scratching at the door.”


 Damn.....


 “So, this dog and Keystone Light is part of your ambitious plan to get me in tune with the rest of the world?”  I ask.


 “Nah, Tripper is just here to keep you company when I can't.”


Tripper has to be the goofiest looking Beagle that I’ve ever seen.  If you were to look up every little physical defect that would disqualify a mutt from a dog show, this little bug-eyed, bow legged shit has it.


But, I can let him out and he knows how to come home.  That’s really rare for a breed of dog that’s known for following its nose.  So, despite his looks, he must at least be intelligent.


 Kenny claps his hands, rubs them together and smiles that smile that I have grown to know so well.  Usually, when he smiles like that, it is sure sign that I am about to get involved in some kind of trouble or at the very least an undertaking that’s going to make me uncomfortable.  And, no matter how things transpire, somehow, Kenny always comes out of his hair brained plots smelling like a rose.


 “Are you ready to hear my idea?” he asks.


 “I don't know.  It's not going to get me in trouble, is it?”


 “What? No, of course not....That comes later.”


 (Sigh)  “All right, I'll bite.  What is it?”


 “Well, you've always wanted to write a book, right?”


 “Um…Yes?" I say with a dubious look, "Where are you going with this?


 “So, here's what I have in mind.” says Kenny as he opens a can of beer and takes a seat, “This book you are going to write is going to be your therapy.  It's going to be a way to pave your future by laying your past to rest.”


 “And just how exactly is this going to be accomplished?”


 “Ah......Glad you asked.  You are going to write about our small town here that you grew up in....Ah, ah, ah.....Wait...No objections yet, I'm not done talking.  So, here is the catch; you can only write about happy memories.  You will not dig into the past dredging up bad experiences.  Everything about this book will be positive and with a sense of humor.  What do you think?”


 “What do I think? I think you’re a shit for brains.  Why are you doing this to me?”


 “Because you, my friend, are an unhappy wallower.  When something bad happens in your life you shut down, get depressed, and wallow in the event.  Not only do you wallow, you bury yourself in it.  You sit in it...You eat, sleep, and drink it....You do everything but fight to pick up the pieces and start over.  That's why I want you writing happy stories that you are going to bring to me to read.”


 “And, I repeat, just how exactly is this little project supposed to help me?  How does writing about a little, insignificant town help me forget about the past? Writing a book is not going to magically make my past failures disappear.”


 “True, it won’t. But remembering the past is one thing,” says Kenny who chugs his beer and resumes talking, “Reliving it over and over again is something else.”


 Kenny finishes his beer, belches, leans over and breaks wind, and lets out a sigh of relief.  That’s my brother, Kenny the barbarian.


 Kenny gets up out of the chair, “So, happy stories only.  I don't want you dredging up and reliving the past....NO WALLOWING!!!! Got it?”


 “Yeah, whatever….Fine….. I got it. I guess that means you won’t be reading about high school.  But you can at least make one exception, can't you?”


 “Granddad?” Kenny asks.


 “Yes.”


 “Yep.....I'll make that exception.  So you’re going to do it?”


 “Dude, you're going to bother me until I do so, yes, I suppose I'll do it.”


 “Good,” Kenny says as he grins.  Then he thinks of something, snaps his fingers, and points at me, “Oh, and one more thing; get your ass back in shape, you've kind of let yourself go.  Oh, and absolutely no Tim Burton movies.”


 “That's two things.” I say.


“Well, by God, so it is.”


 “What's wrong with Tim Burton movies?”


 “Well, let's see here.  They are dark, depressing, kind of creepy, and strange; which is exactly what you don’t need right now.  Hell, make me a list and I'll go buy three or four movies to add to your collection.  I saw a title called Naked Nuns with Guns...That might be what you need.  Yeah...  But no Tim Burton.....No Sleep Hollow, no Corpse Bride, no Coraline, No Edward Scissorhands..........You can watch Beetlejuice......I can live with that.”


 “Fine....whatever.  Does my gun toting therapist have any other requests?”


 Kenny smiles and slaps my shoulder, “Just keep laughing....Ok?”


 I nod and force a small smile, “I'll do my best.”


 “That's all I can ask.” says Kenny, “I'll see you tomorrow, okay,”


 “Okay.”


 “Later.”


 As Kenny fires up his truck and roars out of the driveway I sit down and rub my eyes.  I then focus on my new friend.


 “Well, I guess you’re kind of cute in a butt ugly sort of way.” 


 Tripper wags his tail, tilts his head to one side, and says nothing.  He just stares and looks, well, stupid.  At least he’s quiet – so far anyway.


 I lean back in my chair and, just like before Kenny got here, I simply don't feel like dealing with this today. I......


 Wait......


 Kenny hasn't even been gone thirty seconds and I find myself beginning to wallow.


 “Damn, it.”


 Maybe tomorrow will be better.  I dig my sleeping bag out of a box, grab a pillow off of the couch, kill the lights, ditch my jeans, and crawl inside my sleeping bag.
 
Tomorrow.  Tomorrow is a new beginning.


 I lie on the floor and listen to the clock ticking on the wall in the kitchen.  I had forgotten how quiet the small town life is at night.  No traffic, no siren, no loud music with its heavy bass threatening to shatter your windows.


 Silence.....Nothing....but....silence ----- and a beagle that just plopped down beside me and made himself at home.  Great....


 How did I go from lying next to my (soon to be ex) wife to sleeping next to a dog ---- that I just discovered has terrible gas?  GOOD GOD…. 


 I guess I’ll be sleeping with my head under the covers tonight.

 Add yet another situation to the long list of things Kenny has done to cause me pain and suffering.  Thanks so much, little brother.  I’m going to sleep well tonight.