One last pull…

He gave it one last sputtering pull but still no luck. Fresh gas. New spark plug. New air filter. Still nothing. He cursed under his breath and examined the new blister on his palm earned from his fruitless efforts. He would pop it later. He took a seat on an overturned pickle bucket and stared at the old, rusted push mower. One more damned thing to spend nonexistent money on. He lit one of his last two cigarettes and finished off the warm remains of the tall boy he bought on the way back from the second trip to the hardware store that morning. He threw the empty can toward the top of the burn barrel, but the breeze nudged his shot to the right by a few feet. Missed the mark again, he thought. He’d get it later. Maybe. He stared at, and through, the mower. His rage grew. Life was getting expensive. Between the child support, the alimony, the attorney, the bail bondsman, and the regular bills, he couldn’t even afford to pay attention anymore. Now this bullshit.

The dusty tall grass swayed with a gust of wind. The empty beer can rolled with it, faintly chunking against a fallen branch from the last winter storm.

[Huguenot Road, Bon Air]