Behind The Belle Motel

I’m 35 taking a piss outside a purple house in Belle, Missouri.

This is our off day. I’m supposed to be asleep. Recovering.

But I could hear the couple behind the Belle Motel all morning.

I thought of myself as a person who would get involved

in a mess like this. Who’d save people. Who’d do the right thing.

But I’m not. I’m a person who says,

“If he takes one more step, I’ll do something.” Then he does

and I say, “All right, if he lifts his hands I’ll do something.”

Then he does and she’s lying in the dirt holding her jaw while

three little blonde kids cry and scream for their mother. I’m a person

who says, “Now someone else will definitely show up and stop this.”

But no one does. She gets up, tells her crying kids

to shut the fuck up, and they all go inside together. To recover.

An American family who can’t afford to get divorced.

A success story in the margins of statistics.

It’s nine a.m. and I’m 35 and hungover. I pour my coffee

on the bush I just watered to kill the smell. Then I go inside

and fall into bed. Look under the pillows for bugs.

Punch my restless legs. Know from the start it is hopeless.

I’m never recovering. I’m always reducing. Faster as time bleeds on.

By Scott Laudati