Rusty stank. He smelled like ointment and cheap beer. He smelled like rotting fruit and menthol cigarettes. The smell drove itself up into your nose and pushed your head back. Sometimes the smell woke me in the morning before the Dean Martin records. He played them all day. Every morning before school, I'd force my eyes open before the music started. The ominous crackles before the music starts to play. The sound still brings me to eyes wide open red alert status. Whenever I need to shake a case of the slows I just pop Deano into the CD player. This was one of those times.
No one expects that their long march into a losing battle will be heralded by Volare. . Deanos ghost wails with all the might my pawn shop pioneers will allow and all I can do is pace a cartoon hole in the floor. Today's the day I tell myself. Today's the day and there's no putting it off. I try and wish it away but it won't budge. It's sits on my mind like a gargoyle on a church. I had to lie in court. I had to lie the truth about Rusty.
When the District Attorney holds up the photos of my mother laying on the kitchen floor, her eyes staring straight up through the ceiling of the kitchen. her arms outstretched to greet the angel of death. Her legs still kneeling. She died praying. The blood pooled around her head, like a saint in a stained glass window. Her corpse affirmed divinity.