LitBit #6: Thursday in Tacoma

The challenge: to write a story in less than 500 words.

The rules: It must be less than 500 words, it must be complete and it must be clean.

Why not write your own LitBit? Email info@alderway.com with your story.

Today’s LitBit comes from Jesse Butcher. 495 words. Enjoy!

THURSDAY IN TACOMA

I haven't tasted freedom in nearly three years. This house on Chinook Avenue sags beneath the weight of a half-century of rain-soaked Tacoma winters and I sit, endlessly counting the bars separating me from liberty.

As always, Thursday night marks his arrival. Although she conceals my cell, I sometimes catch a glimpse of his entrance. He is worn, too many miles driven on an endless highway, too many dreams buried beneath a numbing diesel-roar.

Hours pass and I hear his cries, not hers. Later he flashes past my portal; always leaving with more certainty than he exhibited when he arrived. Could it be she cares more for me than this Thursday-night visitor? God, what agony! Sometimes I think I might love my captor … but most times I simply hate myself.

*

This rainy place is the last leg; Houston to Fresno with Chiquitas, Fresno to Tacoma with oranges, Tacoma to Philly with apples. I start all over in Philly; my Houston-outbound is margarine in little plastic tubs. I make money on this run and spend most Sundays at home.  And then there's Tacoma.

She never sees anyone else on Thursday night, setting this special time aside for us to savor. She knows we have something special but she never acknowledges it. I suppose she's been hurt too many times before.

'I'll always love you, Ada,' I whisper to her as her head rests on my shoulder. I think she hasn't heard me and decide the moment has passed when she suddenly looms above me. 

'You don't love me,' she says, her face close to mine. I can smell her last stale cigarette. Her silhouette is zebra-striped, slashed white then black by the street light streaming through the window blinds.

I'm always sad when I leave Tacoma but the regret fades as I get closer to Philly. After sixteen-years and two kids, I suppose my wife knows I'm no damn good. Sometimes I think I might really love Ada … but most times I simply hate myself.

*

I suppose I should get rid of that bird.  He long ago stopped singing, or screeching, or whatever it is that birds do.  Anyway, I cover his cage when I have a visitor. I know it seems crazy but somehow I feel he's watching me, judging me.

Thanks to Roy from Philly, Thursdays are a breeze. He drops a trailer-load of oranges at the pulp plant and arrives at my place before dark. Roy's big and dumb but he is a Godsend. Every day but Thursday I have to work the Great Western truck stop just to make enough to buy a rock. These days a smoke is all I have, except for Roy … and that damn bird. 

Each time he visits, Roy tells me he loves me. I know that's crap but I suppose I like hearing it. Sometimes when I'm alone, I think I might love Roy, too … but most times I simply hate myself.

Jesse Butcher

Jesse Butcher is the author of the Mike Bishop thriller Muleshoe and the short story anthology, Final Thoughts. Visit Jesse Butcher's Amazon author’s page here and Facebook author’s page here.