Won't You Have A Cigarette?
a short story
The text said: BRING DINNER HOME. YOUR FATHER’S HERE.
Every few months it happened like this. Luanne’s old man pulled his long-haul rig through Chattanooga to bother her and her mom like they were a regular family. The last time he’d sat himself right back at the head of the table, starting in with questions before dinner was even served.
“You got a job?” he asked Luanne.
“Yes.”
“You got a boyfriend?”
“What do you care?”
“Because I’m asking.”
She twisted her shirt tail beneath the table. “No, I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Hmm.” He sipped at his beer. “You some kind of queer?”
Luanne always dug back. “How’s living in your truck, dad?”
\ \ \
It had only been half an hour since her shift began, but Luanne took a cigarette break anyway. Walking onto the loading docks, she pulled a Red from a crumpled soft pack and read her mother’s text again.
“Got another?” the tramp asked.
Luanne jumped at his voice and played it off with a small laugh. These freight train riders had come around before. Her Walmart backed up to the railyard.
The tramp hopped out of the dumpster and brushed himself off. He looked dirty in a permanent way like her cousins in the mine.
Luanne handed him a cig. “Anything good in there?”
He showed her a dented can of beans.
Luanne tossed him the lighter and checked her phone again. From the corner of her eye she could see him staring. Luanne knew she made that stupid blue Walmart shirt look better than anyone else. She cocked her hip toward him.
“So, you traveling then?” she asked without looking up.
“Yeh.”
Luanne lifted her chin, her eyes still on the phone. “Do you hop trains?”
“Sometimes.”
“Where you headed next?”
The tramp nodded down the row of blue cans. “That dumpster there.”
“No, I mean, where—”
“New Orleans.”
Luanne nodded and pulled on her cig. “Sometimes I want to get out of here.”
The tramp shrugged.
Luanne knew she could have left. Just like her old man. She could barely admit it but whenever she saw trucks pulled off at the rest stops, part of her didn’t blame him for leaving.
“You got any food inside?” the tramp asked.
“There’s a pile of steaks that just expired. I don’t know if they’re any good.”
“Yeh. Those dates are never right.” The tramp chewed on his cigarette.
Luanne laid her cig on the edge of the dumpster. She went inside. Staring at the overflowing shelves, she knew she could make it all disappear. But how could she leave her mom alone?
Luanne picked out a few steaks and went back to the tramp who took them into his arm. She stayed close. “Can I take a picture with you?”
The tramp pulled back. “Uh, why?”
“I don’t know. I’ll think of you.” Luanne held out her phone as far as she could and the tramp leaned in awkwardly. When she showed him the picture, he said nothing.
Luanne’s mother texted again. DID YOU GET MY MESSAGE . . .
Luanne flicked away her cig and reached for the door. “I’ve got to get back to work.” Without waiting for an answer, she disappeared with a strut, knowing the tramp was still watching.
Inside, Luanne replied. GOT IT. I’LL BRING HOME STEAKS.
“Fiction is the lie that tells the truth.” Neil Gaiman said that. Sometimes I write short stories (instead of essays). It’s nice to forget the facts once in a while, you know? I’ll throw these out every so often, mix it up.
If you liked this, why don’t you try another . . .
Excellent!
You've got such a gift! Write the whole book please!