Half an hour later, Dor had escaped downtown and drove past the big green hill lofted above the outskirts of town. Really, that hill was a sewage lagoon the city built before these outskirts were inhabited. Once a year, the shit at the bottom would rise to the top and fumigate the surroundings in wretched stink, quite the oversight from the city-planning committee. Or maybe just some cheap real-estate they could sell?

Still, to Dor that big green hill was his favorite sight. Just beyond it, he turned down Highway 41, and a quarter-mile later, turned into Rose Valley Park. That hill landmarked the highway home. Comfortable double-wides and modular homes scattered through Rose Valley’s paved lot. His old neighbors sat on lawn-chairs out front, sipping beer with their bare feet propped up on coolers. A crowd of high-school kids huddled on the porch of a double-wide. Dor was just outside the latest generation of up and comers, so he didn’t recognize any of them, but he figured those kids were passing around a joint and gossiping about loose women.

The good ol’ days. His 30-year-old Trans-Am fit right in. The throaty engine grumbled by, turning the kids’ heads. They all hooted and hollered, and Dor couldn’t help but smirk. He lifted a couple of fingers off the steering wheel and gave them a sly wave. One of the girls in the crowd hollered louder than the rest. Is that Marcy Dean? Goddamn, it is. That’s Denny Dean’s girl, growing up quick.

To Marcy, he gave a full-wave. Her dad, Dean, used to stop by back in the days when Dad put on his Wednesday evening barbecues. Wednesday was the only evening Dor’s old man had free enough for a family dinner. Uncle Ron, Lulu, and the rest of that crowd would stop by with a slab of something or other to throw on the grill. Denny Dean always brought skewered Portabellas wrapped up in bacon. Those were good. They’d eat to the tune of Fleetwood Mac or Def Leppard while sitting on coolers and folding chairs scattered around the lawn. Dor and his buddies would huddle together out back, sneaking cigarettes and beers. The good ol’ days.

As he drove through the neighborhood, there were still people out and about, but the magic of those days seemed to be missing like everything had tamed down. Some people he loosely recognized; most others he could only empathize with their loiterings. A lot of new faces and changing old ones. Dor wasn’t so old that generations had come and gone since his time here; for goodness sake, he wasn’t even twenty years old, yet. But with him and Lulu spending their high school years outside Rose Valley's school district at a far-removed, posh school downtown, he’d lost touch with most of his old friends. Their faces had changed beyond recognition, and, honestly, he felt left out. Seemed even his home abandoned him.

That feeling quickly vanished. At the end of a cul-de-sac, he saw his old man’s camper sitting atop a stack of cinder blocks. Their old barbecue lawn chairs stacked against the camper’s yellowed paneling, caked over with lawn clippings and silt. Judging by the state of those chairs, seemed Dad hadn’t put on any get-togethers for a while now. Still, the camper was exactly where it was supposed to be, a lot over from Uncle Ron’s double-wide.

Dor killed his engine and quietly rolled towards Dad’s camper. As much as he loved Uncle Ron, he wanted a quiet approach. Later, they could catch up, but right now, he needed his dad all to himself. He really needed someone to listen to his troubles. Uncle Ron was a lot of good things, but objective wasn’t one of them. He had a heart of gold but no problem telling you exactly what to do and how to go about it. Lulu definitely inherited that aspect of her father. She was the exact same way, except, she’d go the extra mile and literally drag Dor around to all the things she thought he needed to do. The shit of it was, Dor knew most of the time Lulu was right.

The Trans-Am’s tires crunched right up the limerocked driveway and parked in front of the camper. Likely Uncle Ron would discover Dor’s car, but hopefully not right away. Without even bothering to pull his keys from the ignition, Dor crawled out of his car and strode right up to the camper’s screen door. Just before he waltzed inside, a thought struck him: he hadn’t showered for three days. With the monster living next to the bathroom, he’d been hosing himself down outside, but that was a hassle he didn’t want to deal with every day, especially since he was a hermit and all.

His Levi’s and Hane’s Tee were clean enough, and his Doc Marten’s weren’t too scuffed. There might have been a stain or two on his jean jacket, but that was par for the course. No one cared about jacket stains. Still, he ran back over to the car and checked for grunge in the side mirror. Immediately, he realized just how bad of shape his hair was in. The chin-scruff didn’t bother him, but the locks on top of his head did.

His biggest pride was his hair-do. But today, his thick dirty blonde hair was matted and greasy, exactly the type of mullet he hated. Right now, he wore a mullet that gave all mullets a bad name. Fuckin’ Joe Dirt, not Pat Swayze. Since he’d been hosing himself down outside, he didn’t bother with the small army of hair care products anymore. A quick rinse down was all his formerly light and fluffy mullet got. It was supposed to resemble Pat Swayze’s, styled after his and Dad’s favorite movie, ‘Roadhouse’. Instead, it looked more like Joe Dirt’s.

At least he was better looking than David Spade. A square jaw and tall cheekbones might help people forgive the grunge up top. He did his best to fluff his hair, trying to look presentable for Dad. It sorta worked. Fuck it. Dor strode back to the camper and waltzed inside. Pine-scented incense sticks filled his nose. Dad always wanted to live in a log cabin out in Tennessee, but life got in the way, and the best he could do was pine-scented incense sticks to live his dream. Traces of skunky weed lurked underneath the incense’s veil.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

Paper plates, Styrofoam cups, and Party Pizza wrappers stacked high in the fold-over sink basin. From there, a small island jotted out, separating the kitchen and living space. There were only two stools in front of that island bar and only one of them clean enough to sit down on. Dor’s former stool was covered over in junk mail. Dad ate his meals alone these days.

In the living space, a Laz-E-Boy and a futon huddled around a small coffee table and pointed towards an old boob tube television set in the corner. Even in this digital world, a pair of rabbit ears still perched on top of it. Dor grew up watching the ABC and PBS channels. If the sky was clear enough, sometimes they could get Fox to come in and watch a Saturday Bond flick. But usually, it was Eyewitness News and Reading Rainbow.

A tower of beer cans, some brick weed, and Dad’s famous bong cluttered the coffee table. For some reason, the futon still had its bedding on. Dad been sleeping out here? Growing up, the old man slept in the back bedroom and Dor got the futon in the living space. With Dor coming home all hours of the night, that worked out great. He could carouse with his buddies and then walk in the front door, take a couple of stumbling steps, and pass out in the living room. With Dor out of the house now, there shouldn’t have been any bedding on the futon anymore. There certainly wasn’t the last time he visited. When was that? Before shit hit the fan for sure, at least two months ago then.

His old man was likely still sleeping. His night-shift schedule was brutal. Even worse, Dor knew his old man hated that shift. He’d only taken it on in the first place so he’d be available to drive Dor and Lulu to their posh school across town. As strange as it sounded, Dor was nostalgic to the scent of armpit sweat. He and Lulu would pile into Dad’s Dodge every morning at five. Dad would always be reeking of sweat having just got off his shift, and he knew it, too. Even in the dead of winter, Dad would crack his window to siphon out the stench. Dor had never been so shameless as to ask, but he figured Lulu was nostalgic to that same smell, having spent all those same mornings cramped up in Dad’s Dodge.

It always worked out well because Uncle Ron got off the shift following Dad’s, so he’d be available to pick Dor and Lulu up after school. For the nostalgia of Uncle Ron’s Windstar rides, it was the scent of heavy gel right guard. Uncle Ron and Lulu weren’t true kin, but he and Dad went back far enough that their two families merged together all the same. Uncle Ron, Lulu, and all his boys mixed up with Dad and Dor like one big family.

Dor sniffled and opened the fridge. He dug out a hotdog, stuck it in his mouth, and cracked a beer. Right then, the toilet flushed and his gangly dad stepped out of the bathroom. Dad's haggard face, his skinny arms, the months-old hair-cut, that nostalgia hit him harder than armpit stink. Small as the camper was, they were only a few paces away, but Dor couldn’t react. It was so easy to keep it together when it was just him by himself, but seeing his dad, the comfort of it, the sniffles really overtook him. For the second time in two days, his eyes burned and tears fell. He really couldn’t help it.

With the hotdog sticking out his mouth and a beer in hand, he wrapped his arms around his dad and squeezed him tight. Neither Dad nor Dor said a word. They just hugged in the kitchen. That hug might have lasted an eternity; though it only felt like a few seconds. Dor couldn’t tell. He just knew he needed his dad.

Only when the hotdog snapped and half of it fell on Dad’s shoulder, did the two separate.

“Lookin’ good, son!” Dad complimented.

“You’re up?” Dor questioned while swallowing the remaining half of his hot dog.

“You know it. They cut us back a bit a Hosh’s, so you’re old man’s got an easy day today.”

Right as Dad said that, Dor kicked himself for such an inconsiderate question. Of course, Hoshlinger’s would lay off its workers. Colinbach didn’t need meat packed; they needed FEMA or the National Guard. Things were improving since the initial panic, but they were nowhere near great. It was such a shitty thing to say to Dad; Dor had been so wrapped up in his own bubble, he didn’t ever stop to consider how his old man was doing. I’m such an asshole… He also knew emotional stability wasn’t his strong suit these days, but knowing and keeping it all bottled up were two different feats.

“You look good, son,” Dad reiterated. “You look good.”

Dor thought of Dad as a glass half full type of guy. Actually, all the glass needed was a drop of water in it for Dad to grab his water wings and dive right in. "The water's great, son! Come on in!" But even then, saying Dor looked good was still a stretch.

Dad slapped Dor’s back and invited him to the living space. Usually, Dor took the futon and Dad got the Laz-E-Boy, but today, Dad jumped ahead of him and plopped down on the futon first, leaving Dor the recliner throne. As Dor sat down in the recliner, he couldn’t help but think it was the most comfortable chair in the world, worn in all the right places. Really, that well-worn support cushion was hell on the spine, but it worked wonders on the soul.

Seemed Dad plopped down first just to usher Dor to the recliner. Immediately, Dad jumped back up and reached onto the shelf that held his bargain Sony Speaker set. He cranked on the stereo, switched out the CD, and Lou Reed began to strum about eggcreams. That psychedelic, folk-rock artist was Dor and his old man’s one point of contention. Dor hated the Velvet Underground and Dad loved them. His old man considered it a sin to light his bong without them strumming some angsty hippie crap in the background, happy cords about heroin and the good ol’ days.

“It’s the same damn person!” The old man would say.

“But it’s not the same music.”

He preferred the pseudo-poetic, mad-rambling, solo version of the guy. In truth, Lou Reed’s singing was terrible, the guitar cords were rough, and Dor didn’t even like eggcreams. He’d tried them once after the song made it sound like the greatest drink in the world. In reality, it was fizzy chocolate water, just as disgusting as he expected.

Still, Lou Reed was his music. Dad had the Velvet Underground and Dor had Lou Reed.

Without pausing a beat, Dad plopped back down and got to work breaking up some weed. “Ronnie and me was talking about taking a trip up to visit ya. How’s that sound?”

Dor couldn’t look his dad in the eye. “I got…I got a problem,” he managed to say.

Dad packed the bowl. “Whatever it is, it’ll still be there in a minute, right son?”

That was his dad. He always knew exactly what to say and how to say it. Dad handed him the bong, and twenty minutes later, Dor began his story.