The Porch

The sound of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Bad Moon Rising” on the radio fills the chilled October air as two men sit together on a porch. Their glasses sit on a rickety wooden table that is days away from collapsing. Both glasses are chipped on the rim and unwashed. One of the men lifts a glass to his lips, the cheap, weeks old beer gurgling down his throat. He takes a look out at the dark sky from his torn up wicker porch chair, sighs, belches, turns to the other man sitting next to him, and says, “It doesn’t get better than this, does it?” 

The man next chuckles, “Sure Hank, nothing better.”  

“I mean it! Look at us, man! Beers, no wife, complete silence. It’s great. Nothin’ more American.” Hank replies, grinning and propping his feet up on the porch fence. The fence squeaks as if it’s being strangled, but Hank is blissfully unaware. 

“I know you’d be shakin’ in your boots if the bitch heard you say that. You’re all talk.” the man argues, shaking his head in frustration.  

“Hey, I’m just trying not to risk losin’ out on her cooking. She may talk your ear off, Billy, but the woman doesn’t play about dinner. I’m already craving that pot roast.” Hank says as he closes his eyes and rubs his hands together, the corners of his mouth turning upwards in a loving smile, most likely picturing the pot roast, not his wife. 

Billy spits on the ground. “Yeah, whatever. I just don’t get it.” he admits. 

“Don’t get what?” Hank asks. 

“I mean. You spend so much time talkin’ about how she’s always on your ass about the smallest shit. It’s like she’s torturing you.” Billy replies. 

“It’s all cause she loves me.” Hank argues.  

“Seems like she can’t stand you.” 

There is a brief pause. Hank’s tattooed smile begins to waver. He looks over at Billy who’s looking to the right off the porch at the road ahead, acting as if he cannot feel the tension he has just caused. It’s not unusual for Billy to talk like this. Hank suspects he’s always been jealous of him and Marla. I mean, it must be tough living alone like that. Nothing but a half empty box of Raisin Bran to wake up to. Yeesh. Hank raises his hand and less than gracefully throws his empty can of Bud Light at Billy’s head. 

“You’re lucky you’re my best friend. Or else I’d be real pissed right now.” Hank says with his playful smile returning.  

Billy grins back, rubbing his head. “Yeah, lucky me…So, how’s the boss been treatin’ ya?” 

“Eh, can’t complain. She’s been gettin’ me some extra hours in the evenings.” Hank reports back.  

Billy is silent, contemplating whether to say what’s on his mind. “I’m sure Marla’s been real happy with that.”  

Hank bites the inner corners of his mouth, trying very hard to not lose his cool. “I mean, she’s understanding. But she can get a bit lonesome sometimes, so I don’t blame her.”  

There is a sort of feeling that hasn’t been present between the two before. Hank’s next move is all determined on what response creeps out of Billy’s mouth.  

“Must be a lonesome life when you get off on makin’ your husband feel like shit.” 

Hank’s body moves before his mind can think. He is on his feet and stands in front of Billy, fists clenched. “Man I told you, watch your damn mouth!” Hank explodes.  

Billy is silent. He sips his beer.  

At this point, Hank is putting his friendship on the line. “Are you fuckin’ listenin’ to me?! This ai’nt a joke. I’m sick of your shit and all the disrespect and the-” 

“I had a dream last night.” Billy breaks his silence, staring through Hank, as if he were not hovering a mere few inches above him, as if he were a ghost.  

“What?”  

“A dream. It was dark. There was this, never endin’ road, probably in the middle of nowhere. And I just… walked to try to get to the end of it. I walked for miles. And there were these signs. They all said somethin’ like ‘You’re almost there!’ and ‘Road ending soon!’ But no matter how far I walked, the road kept goin’, and goin’. I tried to outsmart the road. I would start running, or go backwards, or try to hitchhike. Nothin’ worked.” 

Hank, still standing, lessens his aggression as it turns to confusion. He wanted to laugh. In the decades that he had known Billy, he had never uttered something as… thoughtful as this. Not that he was stupid or anything, but Billy was a simple man.  

“Why are you tellin’ me this? I don’t know what to make of-” 

“I’m not done.” Billy cuts in. “Like I said, I tried everything to get off of this road. At one point, I just sat down for hours, lost and losin’ hope. I got so bored I started tracin’ my fingers along the road’s cracks. And then, at some point, the tracin’ became scratchin’. I was scratchin’ at the asphalt, Hank. And then I realized: if I can’t escape the road, maybe I have to break the road. I took my fingers and started diggin’ them into the openings of the road. I was diggin’ and diggin’ like a damn dog searchin’ for a bone under the earth. My fingers were bloody, Hank. They were bloody, but I couldn’t stop. The diggin’ turned into poundin’ and scrapin’ and biting. Hank, my hands were purple and my teeth were fallin’ out, but I couldn’t stop. Until finally, I had done it. And when it was done, the sky wasn’t dark anymore. It was golden. It was golden, Hank. Hank, do you know why I’m tellin’ you this? Do you, Hank?” Billy’s eyes were wild, now staring at Hank, rather than through him.  

The only time that Hank had believed he had felt dread was when he was watching the Cowboys play in the Super Bowl. But this was not the Super Bowl.  

“Why?”Hank replied, barely a whisper.  

“Because, Hank, because I realized. Marla is the road, your wife is the road, Hank. She was holdin’ you back from everything. You couldn’t get off the road. But I saved you, Hank! I did, I really did.”  

Hank had never seen Billy this happy before. He had long hoped that his best buddy would find something to make him truly fulfilled, but Hank didn’t want this. 

“How did you save me?” Hank asks, without wanting to know the answer.  

Billy’s expression turns to an uncanny neutral as he looks down at the tarnished, wooden floor. He carefully takes Hank’s hands into his own, looks up into Hank’s eyes with a sweet smile on his face and whispers, “Look under the porch.” 

Hank’s hands are gracefully released as hobbles down the stairs, the steps creaking one by one. Neighbors might think that his wobbly gait was due to alcoholic intoxication, and while it is true that an embarrassing number of Bud Light’s were consumed tonight, Hank has never felt more sober.  

The muddy boots on Hank’s feet could see the bottom of the porch, and Hank struggles to let his eyes have the same view. Slowly, he drops to his knees and lowers his pounding head. Hank stares into the void of the porch’s underneath as his eyes narrow in on the sight that evokes a scream so violent it seems to rip Hank’s vocal cords in half. 

Billy stands up and begins to dance around on the porch, his feet moving in an undefined pattern, like an amateur tap dancer.. He begins to sing, "Don't go around tonight… Well it's bound to take your life… There's a bad moon on the rise!” 

At this point, Billy’s singing and Hank’s screams have most likely woken up the entire neighborhood. Lights begin to illuminate the various bedroom windows as homeowners angrily look outside to see what has disturbed their sleep. Doors open with many men and women yelling and cursing in an attempt to shame the origins of the noise. 

Throughout the chaos, one woman sleeps soundly. Her arms, heavily bruised, lay neatly crossed against each other, and her broken legs, perfectly vertically positioned. Her eyes are shut tight on her blood painted face. Underneath the porch, Marla is now at rest, in peace.