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Untitled Part 1

"What did he say?"

"He hallucinates.  It's from the drugs he's on. I asked if he wanted to touch one of them. I mean I showed him, the page he took away with him? I drew it right in front of him. Showed him the patented Kevin Bell pencil-to-inks speed courtesy of the girls. He told me he didn't even think he was here. Part of him did, but other parts of him were convinced he was back in Bellingham. Making all of this up."

"That stinks. For a variety of reasons."

Kev walked over to the window and looked out at the house next door. A new family had moved in. They got the death discount. They didn't ask which room my dad had used for his suicide. It was a small caliber gun that put Dad out of his misery. The mess left behind didn't look like some sort of sideshow mishap.

"He's never going to get laid," said Kevin.

"He said that?"

"No. We talked about puberty. Not a lot. Girls. He said he still didn't like girls. Some are ok."

"Does he have a girlfriend?"

"He's 11."

"I know."

Kevin sagged against the window. The girls braced him against the wall. It was a kind of Christ-like pose, if Christ had been bitten by the mutant gene.

"I told him about my own problems. Having the girls, but not really being able to get girls."

"Right."

"I don't think it helped. I think it hurt probably. Fuck."

"I know."

Kev gave me the patented 'the hell you do' look. We go through phases where it's put in use way more than I'd like. My phone blurped. The wife. Reminding me to pick up my prescription, punctuated with a red smiley face just that side of demonic.

"You were brave," I said.

"Bullshit. That kid's about to go down the throat of oblivion. That's brave."

"I know. But for you, this is like training. For JoLinda."

Kevin sagged.

"Man."

"Sorry."

"I don't want to think about that."

"It's coming up."

"I know."

"I'm just saying."

"I know."

"It's why you pay me the big money, Kev."

The girls twitched. I imagined them wanting to act with or without Kev's consent, do to me what they'd done to the empty Pepsi can.

On my way to my car, I walked backwards down Kevin's yard and looked left towards my childhood home. A newly formed habit. Dad was good at inflicting scars, even in his adult aged son.

The last time I walked away with the house at my back I'd heard a gunshot. Just like they say, it isn't like in the movies. More a firecracker going off sound. Investigating, confused, holding Baxter the Wonder Dog in my arms, I'd found my father with a self-inflicted bullet in his brow. First, Dad had called me in a panic, something about Baxter being hurt. Then, me toting Baxter out to my car, Dad had shot himself, me distracted by Baxter's cosmetic wound. My guess was Dad almost killed Baxter, doing that thing where suicides think they won't be going it alone, taking an animal with them, but at the last minute, Dad pulled out of that particular plummet. Baxter was a good dog. Easily integrated into our household. My daughter even made time to pet him, not that she'd ever looked at him, what with her pad spinning out a constant menu of viewing deliciousness 24/7.

The Dumbeck's were a nice near-retirement age couple. Kevin feared them finding out his secret. I joked he could kill them and we could bury them somewhere, and then it would be a standing curse. Kev killing everyone that moved into the house. My dad had offered security of a kind. Regularity. Following his suicide, things were in a state of flux around Kevin.

The Dumbeck's moved in. The Make A Wish Foundation contacted him about poor young Ben. Kev meets some gloriously attractive creature via Skype -- only now JoLinda insisted on meeting him -- and the excitement of long-distance love all but cracked and corroded by the problems in-person appointments presented. Wearing that trench coat to meet the Murdochs was a different soup compared to meeting a woman live and in person; she'd begin to question the slightly rubbery Plastic Man-quality to the arms, the fake rubber hands plunked onto the tentacle tips. And if they got busy, no sane woman would put up with the trench coat. Despite repeated washings, it was ripe.

At the pharmacy, I watched a little kid push a roly-poly inflated robot, one of many poolside or for the beach inflatables hanging around in a wide aisle. The girl laughed and chirped and even hugged the robot.

I'd remember the sweetness of the moment, weeks ahead, when things were turned dangerously upside down, and robots were altogether real.