b gets kicked

At the bad end of town.

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Copyright © 2009, Michael M Wayman

I was sitting on a bench one evening drinking a beer when she came. She was waving her arms in the air and shouting. She stank of gin. She kicked me.

So that's where you are. What are you doing here? Getting drunk?

She yanked me upright, threw the beer can somewhere, dragged me to her beat-up old car and threw me inside. She drove to a trailer park on the other side of town, where it floods twice a year, and dragged me to her beat-up old trailer and threw me inside.

I need a drink. Just you stay there. I ain't going to hit yer, yet.

She grabbed a bottle and drank some. A can of beer came flying from somewhere else in the trailer and landed on the table. I drank it. The next can came flying...

Some time later the empty bottle and several cans lay on the floor.

Wher'yer get those clothes from? You get dressed in a charity shop?

She ripped my clothes off and threw them somewhere and me on the bed.

Women look more attractive at night, especially after a few drinks or with no clothes – but not this one. The bed was hard and uncomfortable. The only soft thing on it was me. She threw herself on me.

OK Honey-Baby! Do what you got married for! Get on with it!

I did what I was told. She slept on me. I watched the moon move slowly across the sky through the dirty windows without curtains. The TV was on. The wind blew, the trailer rocked and sometimes empty cans and bottle rolled across the floor.

I don't drink anything before breakfast.

Breakfast came out of a bottle.

I'm going down to the welfare office to get your money and food coupons. Just stay here until I'm back.

Where was I going without clothes? I looked about the trailer. Anything that was thrown on the floor was lost forever, I decided. Clearing up was impossible. The TV had no off switch. In the little kitchen was a flame, a gas flame, perhaps she cooked with it. There was also a refrigerator filled with beer; perhaps it threw cans of beer at me when I needed them.

She staggered in with a big cardboard box full of bottles and cans. She threw it on the table.

We gotta eat now.

She grabbed some cans and a bottle and disappeared into the tiny kitchen. I could hear her throwing the cans at the wall; perhaps that was her way of opening them.

She threw a bowl of something on the table and whomped big shovelfuls of it onto two plates. I expected her to call it chow, I had no name for it, certainly not food.

Oh, I need a drink.

She grabbed a bottle and I caught a flying can of beer.

Here! I've got somin nice for you.

She threw a check shirt, a pair of jeans and some boots at me. I got dressed.

Oh, yeah! You look good in that. Time for another drink.

The days went by. The drinking and the sleeping. Once a week she went down town and brought back cans of peas and corned beef, never beer, and the necessary bottles.

The heaps of bottles, cans and other stuff remained but never got bigger. I think that the trailer recycled all that stuff into cans of beer which found their way into the refrigerator. I was never short of a beer, there was always one, freshly thrown, on the table.

One night she got real angry with me, it could not have been what I'd said, I never said nothing. She threw bottles at me. She tried to kick me but missed. She threw empty cans at me, at least they didn't hurt.

When I woke up my head hurt bad. It was wet, salty wet. There was broken glass in my hair.

I watched her come out the kitchen with a can of corned beef. She put it on the table, opened it, cut the stuff into cubes and ate them with a fork.

What was wrong? Why had she not thrown it on the table, like usual? Why did she not eat it with her fingers, like usual? Why did she not shout at me, like usual? Why could she not see me?

I waited until my strength came back and staggered out of the trailer. She did not see me go.

You think that I know women. How can that be? I am only a man named b.