Loser's Town by Daniel Depp Read Free Book Online Page A

stucco was crap cinderblock. It had been cracked innumerable times by earthquake and plastered over and every so often a bit would fall off to reveal a deep fissure where insects lived. Potts tried not to think of what went on under the floor beneath him. Off to the side there was a wooden garage that leaned slightly and let sand and wind in through the chinks. Potts had wanted a better place, maybe even an apartment, but the bastards all did credit checks these days and Potts’ credit was shit. There was one small bedroom and a tiny kitchen and living room. A fucking crackerbox. But it had a yard.
    Potts parked his truck in front of the garage and went inside the house. He’d forgotten to leave the a/c running and the place was hot. He turned it on and went into the kitchen for a cold beer. He opened the beer and took a sip and then downed the whole thing. He opened another. It would help him sleep.
    Potts went into the living room. He sat in his easy chair and looked around. It wasn’t much but it was something,and Potts was happy to be back. The place was furnished mainly from Goodwill with accents from Target. Maybe it was cheap but nothing like the shithole he’d been brought up in, or the shitholes he’d lived in often enough. There was a big painting hanging on the wall of somebody called Blue Boy by somebody called Gainsborough. All in all it was a pretty faggoty painting, but Potts liked it. He liked the soft colors and the way there were no hard lines in it anywhere, everything kind of blended together. It relaxed him, and, anyway, he never brought people here. In the year he’d lived here nobody else had been in the place except the landlord and a guy to fix the toilet. There was a word for what the place was. Sacro-something or other.
    The telephone answering machine was blinking. Potts played it back.
    ‘Mr Potts, this is Gina Rivera from Consolidated Credit. We’ve been trying to reach you concerning your account, which is seriously past due . . .’
    (beep)
    ‘Mr Potts, this is Kevin Pynchon again. I’ve come by about three times now for my rent . . .’
    (beep)
    ‘Mr Potts, this is Leslie Stout from McCann, Pool and Foxle. In regards to the appeal we filed for you about visitations to your daughter, it’s been denied. If you’d like to call me I can give you the details. We can try again of course, but it would require additional fees . . .’
    Potts went over to the sliding patio door. As usual hehad to wrench it open. Potts would have preferred a real door with hinges and all, since he knew how easy these were to break into. All it took was a jimmy. God knows he’d done it often enough himself back in Texas. The door led out to the backyard and sometimes you could sit in the living room and look out and watch the sky change colors.
    In the backyard, mainly sand with clumps of crabgrass, was a barbecue grill and a plastic table and chairs. Potts had strung up Christmas lights and sometimes he turned them on when he got drunk. There was a birdfeeder birds ignored and a jerry-rigged horseshoe court. He went over and picked up a rusty horseshoe and threw it. He missed. He sat down in one of the plastic chairs and for a while looked out at the desert. He finished the beer and dragged himself out of the chair and went inside. He got another beer and then he went into the bedroom and emptied his pockets onto the dresser, tossing the thick wad of bills Stella had given him into his sock drawer. He undressed and got sand all over the floor and cursed but he didn’t have the energy to clean it up. He went into the bathroom and took a long hot shower and tried to think about a woman but he couldn’t do that either. He felt like breaking something so he got out of the shower and put on his kimono and drank two more beers.
     
    He woke late that afternoon on top of the bed in his dressing gown. His mouth was thick and his head throbbed. It might have been the beer but more likely it was