White Paint
Ballard District, Seattle
Jimmy added a final coat of paint to his RV, and he went inside.
“It’s finished. Go look at it,” he said to his wife. She herself had just finished stripping a catalytic converter of its precious metals.
“Ok. Just help me with this.”
He tied a tourniquet around her arm.
“Did you see those people down the street?” Connie said.
“What people? You mean the tents?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah I saw them.”
“They’re an eyesore. I hope they don’t stay long.”
“I’m sure they’re all right.” He removed the tourniquet and flung it across the room. It landed on a pile of Sudafed.
Jimmy and Connie went outside to inspect the paint.
“It looks good!” she said. “Now we just need some turf and a white picket fence.”
He picked up the paint can and emptied its excess into a storm drain. Then he tossed it onto the sidewalk.
They stood there for a few minutes, barely remaining lucid.
Across the yard from them, the front door of a house opened. A middle-aged man came out and walked toward their illegally parked RV.
“Hi there,” he said.
“Hi. What do you want?”
“I hate to bother you, but I saw that you dumped paint into the storm drain?”
“Yeah?”
“That’s an environmental hazard. The paint will just end up in the ocean.”
They stared at him.
“And uh. Really, I hate to complain. Just trying to be a good neighbor. I understand your plight and everything …”
“Plight?”
“… but you’ve been slamming your door all day and night. It’s very loud, and it startles our dogs.”
“We’re sorry, man. We’ll try to be quiet.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
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