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Toby notices me looking at him. “Am I a mess? Like, a really bad mess? I might’ve, uh … underestimated how muddy I got. Do you mind if I go and …?” He points toward the house, then makes a decision. “Yeah, I’m gonna take a rinse-off. You can, uh … chill in my shed if you want.” He points. “That’s where I sorta live.”
I follow his finger to what I thought was a toolshed, sitting some ways from the house, nestled on one side by a few wimpy-looking trees, a trashcan, and a lawnmower. “You live in that?” I turn back to Toby quizzically. “Not the actual house?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll be right back to tell it. I … really need to, uh … deal with all this,” he finishes quietly, pointing at himself. “I’ll just be five minutes. The door to the shed should be open. I didn’t lock it when I left for work. Winona!” he then hisses. The dog races up to his feet from the lawn, panting eagerly. “You’re up waaay past your bedtime, young lady.” He swipes a towel off a bench on the back porch, goes to work rubbing Winona all over—and inspiring her to go nuts for five seconds—before tossing it back at the bench and sliding open the back door. Winona trots inside. “Oh. Did you want a drink or anything?” he asks suddenly, the thought occurring to him. “I got soda and water in the house, if you—”
“Haven’t you served enough people tonight?” I nod toward the house. “Take your shower already. You look like Swamp Thing.”
“A-Alright.” Toby chuckles uneasily, his face red—in the spots where there isn’t mud—and then he slips into the house after the dog, the door softly sliding shut.
Cricket-song and wind fill my ears as I, once again, am left to myself out here in the dark wilderness of Spruce, Texas. I slowly stroll across the yard, which is basically a lot of dry grass, dirt, and spots where weeds have grown in tiny bushels. I almost kick into a blue Frisbee left out on the ground, likely a toy of the dog’s. When I reach the door to the shed, I hesitate, feeling odd inviting myself into his personal space without him here. Well, he told me to wait for him in here, didn’t he? I open the door, which is heavier than it looks. I squint in the darkness, the only light coming from a digital clock radio blinking across the small cramped space. “There a light around here?” I mumble to myself, my voice filling the narrow room as I inch my way inside. My foot kicks into the leg of a desk, shaking it and causing a computer monitor to wake up at once, filling the whole shed with its light. The desktop background on his monitor is a fantasy-looking thing with a handsome armored knight wielding a black sword that glows purplish. Above his head, the title Dread Knight is printed in twisted, stylish letters. “So you like knights and swords and stuff,” I mutter, coming further into the shed, where my foot then bangs into the leg of his bed. Why the hell do I keep kicking into things? I sit down in his chair, which is damned comfy for a computer chair, then bite my lip as I survey his little living space with my eyes. I spend about a total of fifteen seconds sitting here, staring into the semidarkness aimlessly. I’m starting to feel sweat forming on my back. The air in here is stale and stifling. How does he live out here in these conditions? My eyes drop to the floor where a Super Mario rug stares back at me.
I engage in a ten second staring contest with Mario.
Actually, maybe I am thirsty.
I spring from the chair and leave the shed at once, heading back to the house across the yard. Silently, I slide open his back door (seriously, no one locks their doors out here in the countryside?) and shut it behind me. His house is about ten degrees cooler than the shed. I hear a shower running down a hall that runs off from the small living room. I see his dog Winona curled up on the couch where she was likely sleeping, but now her head has popped up at my entering. She regards me for two seconds, then lays her head back down and shuts her eyes. To the left of the couch, I spot a soft glow coming from an archway, through which I go to find the kitchen. The glow is from a neon fluorescent sign on the wall in the shape of a pair of red lips, with a whitish “Lucille’s” written in cursive across the top lip, and all of that sits atop a martini glass.
