EDDY'S TYRONE #3

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Tyrone was a narrow street only one car could creep down at a time, lined by monster Eucalyptus trees that blotted out most of the mid-day Sun. When the Santa Annas blew there'd be a confetti light show on the root-ripped asphalt. Trees doing shadow puppets made the street alive.

The houses were small apex framed pattern-punched variations on an already unimaginative theme: skinny front door, window to the living room on the left, red brick planter below. TV antennae sprouted from every roof like futuristic crucifixes. Some of the houses were painted white, some blue, but Eddy's was stucco. The skin of his house was diseased, peeling off like infected scabs, stuck somewhere in a tug-o-war between Summer and Winter. The shingles were rotting, splintering, falling off. Eddy didn't help any, frequently picking at the house when there was little else to do but fidget outside until the screaming inside stopped.

EDDY'S TYRONE #1

 Dirt. Bones. Sand. Horizon on top. Sky weighing down, squishing it all into the earth. Somebody with a limp. A woman. A woman stumbling out of a shed. She slams the plywood door shut. It bounces and wobbles against it's splintered frame, cracking open a thousand wood gnats that immediately drop to the ground. The woman drags a leg through it, kicking up anemic tornados, going nowhere, but away...  Eddy slipped in and out of consciousness with the drone of the engine choking to death on its own leaded gas, pushing north through the Mojave. He was stuffed into the back seat of his father's Vista Cruiser, curled up Indian-style, to make room for the cat box and coat hangers and boxes of greasy pots and pans. Outside, a blur of blue on beige.  Eddy's dad was hunched over the steering wheel like a dog humping a leg. He was wearing the same shirt since they got the call. He smelled like onion soup and damp ashtrays.  Silt blasted the windshield and gathered on the wiper blades. Eddy's dad flipped them on every minute or so, but it never cleared. Eddy's head was swollen and hot like he'd been hanging upside down since they hit the road, allergic to all the dust and stank in the car. He blew his nose into his Dodger's jersey because the toilet paper was in the back, under photo albums. Though he tried otherwise, all he could imagine was body-temperature buttermilk, and was in a mind to barf.  "Can I crack a window?"  "You're shitting me, right? Go back to sleep."

Dirt. Bones. Sand. Horizon on top. Sky weighing down, squishing it all into the earth. Somebody with a limp. A woman. A woman stumbling out of a shed. She slams the plywood door shut. It bounces and wobbles against it's splintered frame, cracking open a thousand wood gnats that immediately drop to the ground. The woman drags a leg through it, kicking up anemic tornados, going nowhere, but away...

Eddy slipped in and out of consciousness with the drone of the engine choking to death on its own leaded gas, pushing north through the Mojave. He was stuffed into the back seat of his father's Vista Cruiser, curled up Indian-style, to make room for the cat box and coat hangers and boxes of greasy pots and pans. Outside, a blur of blue on beige.

Eddy's dad was hunched over the steering wheel like a dog humping a leg. He was wearing the same shirt since they got the call. He smelled like onion soup and damp ashtrays.

Silt blasted the windshield and gathered on the wiper blades. Eddy's dad flipped them on every minute or so, but it never cleared. Eddy's head was swollen and hot like he'd been hanging upside down since they hit the road, allergic to all the dust and stank in the car. He blew his nose into his Dodger's jersey because the toilet paper was in the back, under photo albums. Though he tried otherwise, all he could imagine was body-temperature buttermilk, and was in a mind to barf.

"Can I crack a window?"

"You're shitting me, right? Go back to sleep."