The Country Duet(9)

I haven’t been back in there since that first day. The putrid smell is still walloping me from my stance on the porch.

“Hunter, anyway you can change a light bulb for me?”

I’m not thrilled about the idea of going into his house, but knowing for damn sure there’s no way Dave could manage changing a light bulb on his own.

“Sure,” I agree, stepping in and trying not to gag. “Any reason you’ve got eight trash cans all pushed together, Dave?”

“Old. Can’t get around well.”

“You could go down to one, and I’d take out your trash.”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with it.” He waves at the mess of overflowing, rotting garbage. “Light bulb that needs fixin’ is down the hall in my bedroom. Over on the counter is a new one.”

There’s shit everywhere, just like in his shop. The counter is piled high with junk. It takes me a bit to find the light bulb, and when I do, there’s at least thirty of them. Then I spot a stack of soda. Not any stack of twelve packs, but a display you’d find in a store, except his is covered in dust with the colors on the box faded. Every item he has he owns multiples of, like he’s afraid he’ll run out. He catches me staring.

“Don’t much like going to town. Not a real people person, so I buy shit in bulk.”

“Next you’re going to tell me you have fifty pairs of black sweatpants somewhere.” I point to his pants. I’ve only seen him dressed from head to toe in black.

“Don’t think about stealing a pair.” Dave creaks his way down the hall behind me.

Why he didn’t just sit in his recliner is beyond me. Oh ,wait, I know he’s probably going to make sure I screw the damn light bulb in his way. There’s a tiny path to his bed, and I’m careful not to knock over stacks on my way to the lamp he pointed out. Soda bottles surround the lamp. There are at least a dozen soda bottles surrounding the lamp. Some are filled and others are not.

I reach down to move a bottle to get to the lamp.

“No.” Dave’s booming voice startles me. “Careful with those piss bottles.”

“Piss bottles?” I turn and look at him with one in my hand.

“Can’t get up and make it to the bathroom in time at night.”

“Okay,” I reply.

“Roll over and piss in them.”

I set down the bottle of piss, struggling to tamp down the anger raging inside of me. How does someone get to this point in life and why in the hell hasn’t the community reached out to help him? I know he’s hard to get along with, but no one should live in these conditions. Shit, don’t they have nursing homes for these types of situations?

I reach over the dusty lampshade that’s speckled with holes and change the light bulb, being careful to not knock over a bottle or even think about what’s in them. Dave must approve of my work since he turns and creaks back to his chair. By the time I catch up with him, he’s steadying himself to fall back in his recliner. Without thinking, I reach down and help him ease in.

Lifting up my ball cap, I scratch my head, wondering when the last time he had a bath was or even a decent meal at that.

“Mind if I clean up your trash, Dave?”

He peers up at me with a confused look.

“Wouldn’t be any problem,” I offer.

He shrugs and picks up an old tractor magazine. “Ain’t gonna be paying you more for that.”

That comment pisses off the man inside of me. I’m not here to take away the fortune he seems to think he has. Jesus, no one deserves these conditions. I know damn well, just from the little bit I know of Dave, if his body was still healthy he’d be doing better for himself.

“I wouldn’t take your money anyway.” I stroll over into the kitchen.

Where in the hell do I start? Rotting food and trash flow over the eight bins and is nestled between them.

“Just burn that stuff in the burn pit,” Dave hollers from his recliner.

I’m shocked when there’s only burnable trash everywhere. There must be a hoard of plastic somewhere on this farm. I run to my truck and grab a pair of gloves and begin the job. After several trips out to his burn pit, I throw a few gallons of gasoline on the putrid mess and light it on fire.

Once the flames roar a beautiful red, I toss my gloves in along with the trash. I’m shocked Dave hasn’t died from something in his house. Mold or bacteria or some shit like that.

“All cleaned up, and you’re ready to go, Dave.”

Dave looks up to me with gratitude in his eyes, even if he’s unable to communicate it, it’s there. I’m sure there haven’t been many who’ve reached out to this man. He chooses not to make it an easy task. That’s on him. A hard pill to swallow.

“You’ve got dinner or food to eat?” I ask.

He points to a box of Kirkland protein shakes at the side of his chair. “Yep.”

I clasp my hands together with an overwhelming sensation of sadness washing over me. “See you next Saturday.”

I walk through the kitchen staring at the eight garbage cans, feeling like a little victory was won here today. When my hand grips the doorknob, a thought strikes me. I only come out here every Saturday. Yes, Dave has survived this long, but how many more days does he have before he dies in his own filth?