one last time by JD Clapp
I like seeing ma, even if it’s just like this, sitting here, watching and waiting. I know it won’t last. I already feel the shakes coming. And last time was brutal. Damn near died before they picked me up and checked my ass in. I know I said it would be different. Promised them all. But what the fuck did they expect? I am what I am. You know?
Ma’s doing the dishes now. Damn, she looks old and tired. I can see it in her face in the kitchen window. She looks like a goddamn ghost.
I’m sure the old man’s already asleep in his Lazy Boy, Fox news on, full volume, beer on the table next to him. Like a rerun, same story night after night. There are certainties in life, things you just know. Like I know what he’ll say to ma tomorrow morning when they figure it out. I can hear it now, “your drunk son, the no good thief did it again.” But what choice did he leave me? None, man. No choice. Fucker kicked me out for stealing a few meaningless trinkets that were just going to sit there anyway. Won’t let me see ma. What did he think would happen?
Sure, Jasper used to tell me we have free choice, a drunk chooses to be a drunk and all that AA bullshit. “Lean on your higher power, son. Work your steps. Change your people, places, and playthings…” Always the same old blather. Fuck Jasper, sanctimonious prick. He was never a real addict anyway, just some sad Jesus freak looking for a new religion, something to believe in, something to make himself feel better about his own shit life.
I think Ma’s done. Yep. There goes the light. Just light from the TV two windows over, now. I’ll give it a little more time…have this last smoke and wait for her to nod off too. That’s another damn thing, smoking. Probably should quit. Not for health but that shit costs so goddamn much these days. But hell, a man needs something to do with his hands when there’s nothing else to do, a little comfort when you feel empty.
Sometimes I wonder if this shit was always what it was going to be for me. Yeah, I could have done some shit different. I mean I had my shot. I was in a band that was going places. We were good enough; people came to the shows. Hell, we even toured with Lucero. And I probably could have dialed it back for the shows. We all were partying, sure I played sloppy a few nights, but those fuckers were no better than me, anyway. Not really. At least I wasn’t fucking with smack like Brent. But that pretty boy was the singer, so he got a pass, until he got unlucky that night in the van. Dumb ass bangs some fan girl back there then lets her shoot him up with some tainted shit. Adi-fucking-os Brent. I did feel bad when I heard what happened. But I had my own shit going, so I didn’t go to the memorial. Now he’s some local rock and roll hero, 27 club, and all that nonsense. I don’t know, maybe it’s better that way, having a legacy, being remembered for something. At least people will remember him.
Hold up. A car is coming…Ok, just Mrs. Harper from down the street. She was so cool back when I was a kid. She smoked weed and loved Springsteen. I wonder what she thinks of me now. Ma and the old man wouldn’t tell her, but that bitch Sandra loves telling people about her loser brother and how if I’d just take Jesus into my heart things would be different. Good old Jesus didn’t stop her from marrying a cheating prick, but that was somehow God’s plan for her.
My ass is cold just sitting here on the goddamn curb behind Mr. Carter’s van. It’s pretty good cover though. Lucky for me he leaves this piece of shit on the street.
Should I go now? No…just a little longer, then I’ll go. Hopefully the old man still leaves the key to his gun cabinet in that coffee cup on the workbench in the basement. Wouldn’t that be fucked if he moved it? All this waiting for nothing. It’d be just my goddamn luck. The old man used to say you make your own goddamn luck. How’d that work for you, pop? Not so fucking good.
Ok. It’s time. Just this last time. In and out, quick and quiet. Just one more fucking time… I promise, ma, just one last time.
JD Clapp is a writer based in SoCal. His creative work has appeared in over 50 literary journals and magazines including Cowboy Jamboree, The Dead Mule, trampset, and Revolution John. He is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee (non-fiction) and a three-time Best of the Net nominee (fiction and poetry). His story collection Poachers and Pills (Cowboy Jamboree Press) will be released in 2025 and his story collection, A Good Man Goes South (Anxiety Press) was recently released. He can be reached at www.jdclappwrites.com X @jdclappwrites; Bluesky@jdclappwrites.bsky.social; IG @jdclapp
