Burn Scars, Eddie Generous [read full novel txt] 📗

do a little by way of advertising for me. Simple, got it? Tell those kids about the theatre room, too. Some of those kids got allowances more than you earn in a month, need to blow that money someplace.”

Rusty blinked rapidly. “I don’t really talk to other students…I’m the old guy.”

“No good. Really would be beneficial to move some stereos. Get those kids in with their parents, maybe have a look at a new TV or vacuum cleaner, microwave, fridge, something. Upsell, ever heard of that? Old Pete on the floor’s the only real good up-seller I got, you know, adding onto purchases, but one man can’t sell a whole store’s worth of stuff.”

Dwayne exited the highway and rolled into the outskirts of the no-horse town of Chelsea, Ontario. Rusty was a puddle in his seat, the pent adrenaline going to rubber in his veins.

“It’ll take you no time. You’ve got no competition there. Untapped market. Fish in a barrel. You should want to do right by me.”

“I can try, I guess.” Rusty was still attempting to catch his breath.

Dwayne balled the final wrapper and picked up the knife again. “Good.” He flipped the turn signal and before they got to the town proper, he pulled into a stubby driveway outside a string of newish retirement condominiums. He then dug the tip of the knife blade into his mouth and freed a hunk of mystery fish from between molars. “No swearing in front of my mom, got it.”

“Your mom?”

“Grab that Panasonic out of the back and bring it in.” Dwayne closed the knife as he shimmied out of the van. The van rocked and the door slammed closed. Rusty was so relieved he felt like going to pieces right there in that grease-stinking work van.

—

Inside the condo smelled sweet and sour, like turning bananas. Small boxes rose in pillars all over the living areas as if someone was stuck on stage one of building a cardboard fort. On a rocker recliner, beneath a fuzzy knit throw, a little old woman with bushy white eyebrows and curly white hair sneered at her son.

“Where’s Dwayne?” she said. Her voice crackled.

“It’s me, Mom.”

Rusty held the large microwave and teetered back against the door, bringing his knee up momentarily to rebalance the heavy box.

“You’re not Dwayne. Dwayne’s not that fat!”

Dwayne turned to Rusty. “See the space on the counter, plug that in and set the clock.”

There was indeed a space left specifically for a huge microwave, as if the entire Golden Girls’ squad lived in the condo and would need to form a line to nuke their Hungry Mans and Hot Pockets rather than one tiny old lady. He crossed, careful to avoid boxes and slippers. It was messy and dusty, though not really dirty.

He got to unpacking and trying not to listen to Dwayne with his senile mother, which was impossible, given the tight quarters. The microwave beeped when he plugged it in and startled the old woman from her complaints against the milkman.

“Who’s that, Dwayne? Who’s that?” she said, her voice shrill on top of crackly.

“He’s a deliveryman, just putting in the microwave and helping you unpack.” Dwayne patted her head, but looked at Rusty. “Unpack these boxes.”

“All of them?” Rusty asked.

“Just the ones here and in the hall. Put stuff in normal places so she can find it.” Dwayne then bent and spoke close to his mother’s ear. “Let’s go to the bedroom and I’ll help you unpack, I think you’ll like it here.”

Her eyes glistened and a vapid grin played across her face. “Barry’s going to love it. I’m thinking he’d like a pizza and some Coke. Maybe you can take the Plymouth and get us some pizza from Mario’s. And a salad, maybe you should eat a salad.” She touched Dwayne’s gut.

“Sure thing, but first we unpack.” Dwayne lifted her hands and she cooperated, pushing upright with her knees. She looked sturdy enough for someone from the Paleozoic era. She shuffled down the hall, leading Dwayne away. Over his shoulder, he said to Rusty, who was watching with total focus, “Get to work.”

—

The earlier trepidation was gone. All that lingered was a general distaste for the job and what was coming in the future. Rusty pulled a cigarette from his pack and lit as they rode. “Where did your mom move from?” Rusty asked around an exhaled puff as he hit the button to put the window down about eight inches.

“Nowhere. Been there for six years. Every few months she packs up her stuff to move.” Dwayne was sneering, maybe about the smoke and maybe about his mother, maybe just about life and unreliable human flesh.

Rusty wasn’t clueless, he’d noticed the mental deficiency, but he hadn’t considered the bold steps the woman’s dementia might take. “Man, that sucks.”

“You’re lucky you don’t have any family. I mean that. Your mother’s dead and you don’t have to watch her turn into one of those.” He pointed vaguely of his right shoulder with his chin while his eyes remained pinned on the dim road ahead. “Her brain’s tapioca pudding sometimes, I swear to God. It’s supposed to be assisted, a little, but all those assholes do,” Dwayne threw a thumb over his shoulder, back toward Chelsea and the condos, done with vehemence, “is water the grass and keep the cable feed going.”

“Shitty,” Rusty said, because what else?

“Your dad did you a favor, too bad he didn’t kill himself.” Dwayne finished and then exhaled a long sigh.

Rusty waited for Dwayne to add Rusty in there, too bad he didn’t kill you, too, but it didn’t come. “Oh yeah?” Rusty said.

Dwayne puffed out his rubbery lips. “No. That’s mean. It’s just…it’s very difficult to watch her change into some crazy old lady. Linda keeps telling me she has to go into a