A Taste of Shotgun by Chris Orlet

A Taste of Shotgun by Chris Orlet

Author:Chris Orlet
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Down & Out Books


Twenty-Five

I needed a set of wheels, so I caught the cross-town bus to my mother’s house. First time I’d been on a city bus since high school and it depressed the hell out of me, sitting among all those poor, mostly black people, folks who couldn’t afford even the crappiest cars. Most of them seemed to be on their way to work too, which made the ride even more sad. I got off at 13th Street and hoofed it six blocks over melting sidewalks to Sara’s house.

Sara was pretty much a shut-in. The only times she left home were for doctor’s visits—a waste of time and money since she wouldn’t do anything the doctor recommended anyway—and Christmas and Easter church services. She’d gotten so heavy she had a hard time prying her big butt out of her bariatric lounger, let alone walking. She was only sixty-two but her knees were shot and she required a heavy-duty walker to make her hourly trips from the refrigerator to the toilet. (While taking out her garbage, I discovered that she’d begun wearing adult diapers, no doubt to reduce the number of bathroom trips.) She’d stopped sleeping in her bed four years ago. The bedroom was too far away and besides the concept of day and night had lost meaning for her. She was somehow beyond time. She kept her heavy living room drapes closed all the time, so the only way she knew whether it was morning, noon, or night was by what show was on the TV. Not that it mattered what was on. She’d happily watch eight hours of some guy getting kicked repeatedly in the nuts. Her favorite show was the local news—horror stories of gangbangers shooting each other that made her even more afraid to go outside, never mind that those killings took place in the city, forty miles away.

The little bungalow was shut up tighter than Fort Knox, protected by two alarm systems (in case one failed) and a backup generator (in case the power went out or North Korean hackers sabotaged the power grid). She had bars on the windows and high-tech motion lights. The security companies made a fortune off her. If all else failed, she had her late husband’s Remington pump-action shotgun, which remained permanently within arm’s reach on the floor beside her chair. Even when the twins visited, she wouldn’t part with the shotgun.

I can’t imagine what she thought thieves would steal. Her old newspapers and empty pizza boxes? I couldn’t see the point of living like that. I’d rather be dead. Not Sara though. Her only purpose in life seemed to be to stay alive. And eat. And watch TV.

A maze of boxes containing assorted junk snaked through her living room and dining room, with just enough space for a corridor to the front door and the handicapped accessible bathroom. With the exception of the fridge, she never used the kitchen, which was buried under boxes and broken appliances and trash that she was afraid to take outside.



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