PARKING LOT

Thunder sounded, getting closer, and Justin picked up his pace, spearing trash off the road and dumping it into a gigantic plastic bag. By court order, he had to wear this glow-in-the-dark vest with the words Community Service on the back, and pick up the roadside litter tossed by the ecologically retarded citizens of Roanoke. Only 108 more hours of this to go—but really it wasn’t so bad. Picking up trash cleared Justin’s head.

After he’d fulfilled his civic duty, Justin drove home and placed the trash bag in his backyard in the aboveground pool that nobody ever used. He showered until the hot water gave out, and then drove into town to pick up Melinda from her job at the A&P. In the parking lot, they fooled around for a few minutes, until they came to their senses and Melinda pulled her pants back up.

“That was a close one,” she said.

They had a pact: no sex until Melinda figured out things with Walter, the guy she lived with. At first, the rule had been no sex of any type whatsoever—but that didn’t pan out whatsoever.

COWBOY

The front door squeaked because nobody ever oiled the hinges—it was a giveaway on nights like this when Justin’s little sister, Rose, tried to sneak in after curfew. Justin sat in the kitchen, nursing a glass of buttermilk for his ulcer. He waved to Rose and she made a shushing sound.

“Don’t fret,” he said, “Mom’s out with the wine friends.”

“Do you think she still does it with dad?” Rose pulled a carton of apple juice from the mini-fridge. She had tucked most of her hair under a purple bandana, and her eyes were puffy. “Don’t answer—I don’t want to think about it.”

“What’s wrong?” Justin asked. “And no, I don’t think so.”

“Pete broke up with me,” Rose said. She sat down on the big green chair and stared at the ceiling fan. She looked startled, as if she had never seen this fan before. “Or maybe I broke up with him. I’m not sure.”

Justin sliced a raspberry tart in two, and carried the bigger portion to his sister. In all honesty, she needed to drop a few pounds, but this wasn’t the time to point that out.

“What happened?” Justin asked.

“God, I don’t know,” said Rose. “It’s like, if you give a boy something, he starts to think you owe it to him forever.”

Justin bent down to touch his toes. In jail, he’d gotten into the habit, every night, of touching his toes two hundred times a day. There wasn’t much else to do in jail. It wasn’t terrible, just cold and relentless. He wrote some letters, but nobody wrote back except Melinda and Rose. Mostly, he exercised and read old magazines about Cher and Madonna and their love lives.

“Did you—how far did you get with Pete?”

“That’s so not your business,” said Rose. “But, OK, not all the way, but everything else.”

Justin licked raspberry filling off his fingertips. Rose kept playing with her hair.

“I hate his shirts,” Justin said. Pete faked the cowboy look: snap button shirts, humongous belt buckles, and boots that made him taller because Pete was a shrimp.

“I know,” Rose said, nodding. “Everybody hates his shirts.”

HIBACHI

Walter was out of town, fishing, but Melinda didn’t want Justin to come into her apartment. “People talk and the walls have ears,” she said. She balled up her empty bag of potato chips and tossed it on the ground.

“Hey!” Justin said. He stabbed the bag with his EX Deluxe Litter Stick. This was Melinda’s idea: collecting trash at dusk—something they could do together. She had told Walter about Justin, and exactly nothing had changed. She wasn’t going to just toss him into the streets, she told Justin, but it was getting weird, because he kept asking her questions about Justin. He wanted to know if Melinda and Justin loved each other, and if not, what was the point of all this carrying on?

Justin speared a notebook, a beer can, and a child’s tennis shoe. People always littered more on weekends.

“You’ll be a free man soon,” Melinda said. “And you can run away with me to New Mexico and we can have a baby.”

“That won’t happen,” Justin said. “We’re not going anywhere.” He shook his head and picked up cans and cheeseburger wrappers. Sometimes it was hard to love the human race. Beside him, Melinda kept talking.

“We could have a kitchen with an island,” Melinda said. “We could have anything.”

A carload of teenage boys drove by, going too fast, and from the backseat someone tossed a paper bag filled with empty beer cans. The bag splattered near Justin’s feet.

“Little creeps,” Melinda said.

“See, Melinda, that’s the thing about babies,” Justin said. “Those guys were babies once, and look how awful they turned out.”

“You can find the bad in everything,” Melinda said. “If you want to.”

Justin picked up the trash. A taxicab drove by, and a woman waved from the backseat. Up the street, some kids played Marco Polo in the Econo-Lodge swimming pool.

“When I was little we had a border collie.” Melinda twirled her hair around her ear.

“You don’t have to tell me every single thing about you,” Justin said.

“I know that,” Melinda said. She looped an arm around Justin’s waist. She was always touching him, even when he didn’t want her to.

Justin looked at Melinda’s face under the glow of the Econo-lodge lights. He eased into her arms. His trash clanked and shifted in the bag. There were always things to say that were never said. Justin kept meaning to tell Melinda that he needed to leave Wilton and start something new, somewhere else, by himself—but he never seemed to find the right time. This was, he figured, exactly how lots of people wound up married.

In the weeds behind the dumpster, feral cats sniffed about. Melinda kissed his cheek and rubbed at the smudge left by her lipstick. The children got out of the pool and unfurled their towels, while their parents, sullen and tan, grilled chicken parts on the tiny poolside hibachi.

HEY CHARIOT

Rose didn’t have a date for the prom anymore, but she already had the dress, so Melinda came over to help with makeup and shoe advice. Justin and Alice waited for them in the back yard. They sat on the picnic table, drinking beer and dipping Fritos into the bean dip.

“I haven’t had a cigarette in three days,” Alice said. “I’m surprised I haven’t jumped off a cliff or something.”

Melinda poked her head out the screen door and said, “Ta-da: Look at Rose.” She stepped aside and Rose sashayed out. She wore a pink dress with a low, scooped neckline, and poufy sleeves.

“You’re pretty,” said Alice. “Look at your waist.”

“I’m sucking in my stomach like crazy,” Rose said. “I’m going to pass out pretty soon.”

“We might as well go,” Melinda said. Alice had cooked a bunch of peanut butter cookies, and everyone grabbed one on the way out the door. They decided to walk because it was pretty outside, and because the high school was only two blocks away. They walked with cookies into the darkening night. Chariot shambled, on a leash, behind Alice. He kept sniffing the ground and wagging his tail. Outside the high school, Pete and his date glided, hand in hand, up the winding sidewalk. Rose gripped Justin’s elbow until it hurt.

“Dana Skalinski,” she whispered. “She’s a whore, but really sweet.”

Melinda put her arm around Rose, and Rose’s dress made crinkling sounds like a present being unwrapped on Christmas morning.

“So, yeah,” Rose said, staring at the row of lanterns that lined the sidewalk. “This is high school, right?”

“I like your bow,” Alice said.

Rose kept holding on to Justin’s arm.

“Thanks,” Rose said.

Justin bent down to pet Chariot. Couples poured out of cars and at least one limousine.

“You don’t have to do this,” Alice told Rose. “We can turn around and get ice cream.”

“No, I want to,” Rose said. “Sort of.” She let go of Justin and shrugged away from Melinda and walked alone into her high school gym. Melinda grabbed Justin’s hand, and he pulled her closer beside him. Alice retrieved a pack of cigarettes from her shirt pocket, but didn’t light up. Justin kissed the part in Melinda’s hair, and Alice put her head on her son’s shoulder. A muggy night, almost summer. A few fireflies bobbed about, framed by magnolia trees.

“One time,” Melinda said. “I opened my car and a little bird flew out.”

“That’s bad luck,” Justin said.

“Not for the bird,” Melinda said.

“I think it’s only bad luck if it happens inside your house,” Alice said.

“We should move,” Justin said, but nobody moved.

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Interview with Ellen Parker

EP: The theme for Kathy’s month here at Necessary Fiction is “wildlife,” so I am going to begin with a question that I think (sort of) pertains: What shocks you? (This strikes me as being a good question for anyone to answer. I think much can be revealed in a person’s answer to this question. Not to put you on the spot or anything.)

JL: I’m shocked, all the time, about how ugly and unkind we can be to each other around here.

EP: I read all of the stories in your book “Truck Dance,” recently published by Matter Press and available for the low, low price of $6 (plus $2 shipping), and it strikes me that a fair number of your protagonists have a lot of affection for certain girls or women, but this affection is not often returned. In fact, hardly ever. What can you tell us about this theme of unrequited love in your fiction?

JL: Oh, you know, I’ve listened to (rough estimate) sad love songs about 500000000000000 times. It hit me, at an early age—fourteen or so—that love can be a hurtin’ thing. I think I saw myself as this driven-by-melancholy guy, and so, to keep that going, of course, unrequited love, or want, is necessary. There must be something in me that wanted that, and made it happen, and, typing this, I’m shaking my head and going, man, what a dumb, dumb thing to covet. Also, most of those stories are fiction. I think women are stronger than men, but we’re all pretty fucked up.

EP: What is your favorite story you have ever written, and why?

JL: “Green Angels” and it was published in Another Chicago Magazine. I liked it because it’s the only story I’ve ever written that had the heft of a short novel. My other favorite story was the first one I ever had accepted, by Phoebe Magazine, and I can’t remember the title, but the first line was “Standing next to Noobie, I feel small and downy.” And I like this story because it was the first time I really understood pace and voice combined.

My favorite shorter stories are “Catholic Girls” and “Electricity.”

EP: What is your favorite sandwich you have ever eaten, and why?

JL: The TUNAQUE! at this no longer there joint in Duck, North Carolina. It was made with real tuna, smoked and slathered in barbeque sauce, and, man, I’d ride my bike to this place every afternoon, and then, at night, my family wondered why I had no appetite.

EP: What is your favorite story by another writer, and why? (It’s OK name more than one story—or not.)

JL: My favorite Ending is from Joyce’s “The Dead.”
My favorite joy-to-read story is Ron Carlson’s “Milk”
My favorite sentence by sentence story is O’Connor’s “The Life You Save May Be Your Own”
The stories that moved me most, “The First Day” by Edward P. Jones, “The Shawl” by Cynthia Ozick, “The Things They Carried” Tim O’Brien, and “Sonny’s Blues” by James Baldwin.
Salinger and Peter Cameron are my favorite writers of dialogue.
I love everything Mary Robison has written,
And, too many others…including stories by people I know well and respect immensely.

EP: You seem to be quite comfortable writing flash-length fiction. How often do you attempt to write longer works? Have you ever written, or intend to attempt to write, a novel?

JL: Three novels, all shitty. I turned two of them into novellas. I’m still trying, but now I write these really short chapters. It’s hard to write a novel, even a shitty one.

EP: Can you give us some advice as to how on earth parents should survive the teenagerhood of daughters?

JL: Enjoy the great parts, even when it feels like they are a rare species. Also, eventually, they leave the room. They get jobs. They learn how to drive.

Don’t hover, and don’t do their homework. I’m not a huge fan of beating your children, either, but I don’t judge!

EP: I kind of hate this next question; it makes me groan; but, well, what are your writing goals? You have recently published two books. Are you ready to rest on your laurels?

JL: I just want to keep writing. I don’t care too much about the rest of it. And I am completely serious. Of course, and you know this, I’m not the most ambitious, go-get-‘em guy you’ll ever meet. I haven’t been writing much lately, and I tend to only write with purpose in the summer, but I hate NOT writing much more than I hate writing—but sometimes it’s close.

EP: Here’s another good one: Who is your favorite fictional character, and why?

JL: Holden Caulfield absolutely ruined me as a human being for many, many years. Oh man, I would’ve been WAY nicer/kinder/more generous if I had never read that book, but I love that book. People, still, misread it. Holden is fucking miserable, and kind of a brat, but funny and filled with this perfect yearning for…something else.

But my favorite character, ever, is Frankie, in Carson McCuller’s “Member of the Wedding” and I just love her baffled, bruised, bluffing heart. Man, that book is the Bible of longing.

EP: Which writer just makes you go absolutely apeshit with jealousy, and why? (That is also kind of a “”wildlife” question.)

Antonya Nelson kills me. Her sentences are so packed, so smart, so unexpected. Joy Williams destroys me too. But, again, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever read is the last two pages of “The Dead.”

EP: I guess I’ve grilled you enough for now, but there’s one more thing I want to know: Are you ever going to join Facebook?

I don’t know. I waste time, plenty of time, already. I watch “Cops.” I play Angry Birds. I nap, like an American Pop, in front of football games on TV, wearing sweatpants and socks that always seem to be halfway slipping off my feet. Plus, I heard a grown woman the other day at the grocery store, bitterly upset because some other woman had de-friended her, so, who needs that action?

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