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Every inch of the trailer can be viewed from my spot by the door. Chunks of wood peek out of holes in the carpet. Dents pepper the walls, along with mysterious stains. Could be worse.
It’s a roof.
And walls.
That’s a plus.
In my nightmares, I envisioned this place. The reality is much better than the fears that plagued me before I arrived.
I catch bits and pieces of words the woman barks out.
Rent.
Utilities.
Maybe I should be at this meeting. These are all things Dad forgets to do when he’s drinking. I’ve never had the luxury of being a kid. My father is an alcoholic, barely around, leaving me alone to raise myself. When he’s not working, which is always seeing as he gets fired more often than he changes his clothes, he’s drunk.
And Mom…
She’s dead.
What does this mean for me? If we want to eat, I have to buy it. It also means that it’s my responsibility to cook the food. There will be no dinner if I don’t. If I want a clean space, free of beer cans and booze bottles, I pick it up. If I want to keep the roof over my head, I ensure the bills are paid.
If this woman wants the rent on time, she’d be better off telling me where to drop off the check, because my dad might appear sober right now, but this is temporary. By tonight, he’ll be passed out on the couch, not even realizing where we are.
Glancing at the woman, I know it would be pointless to insert myself. She wouldn’t listen to a thing I say. She’s bad-tempered and dismissive.
“Dad, can I look around?” I ask, wanting to get away. To explore my new living arrangement.
That’s what this is.
It’s not a home. It’s temporary.
One day, I’ll be old enough to escape. To have my own place. Somewhere I’ll feel safe. When that day comes, I won’t walk away.
I’ll run.
Dad gives me a nod, and I don’t wait for any more words before rushing off.
I have no desire to hear anything else that woman has to say. It’s clear she owns this trailer park. She’s only said it at least ten times in the last two minutes. Now she’s rambling on about rules. The lady should save her breath.
He’ll break them, anyway.
Seems pointless to waste her breath when she’ll need to explain them another forty times before we’re on to the next temporary situation.
Once, a few years back, before everything went bad and Dad lost his steady job, we had a home. A real one.
Now, I’m happy to not be living in Dad’s car.
That was our situation right after we got evicted. Then he started gambling and had a short run of luck, which allowed us to hop around to places that at least had beds and heat.
The farther I move into the trailer, the colder and draftier it gets.
It’s not hard to figure out why. The windows have broken seals, which explains the chill. I’ll have to forge a note from Dad to that woman in the next week to figure something out about the window situation. We’re renting. Surely, that’s something she must do.
My head tilts as I take in the living space. It’s a tiny area, large enough for the single couch facing the tiny, gloomy yard. The taupe material is worn and barren, even from the back. As if someone spent a lot of time here, gazing out into the glum world beyond the wall of windows.
How depressing.
