Allen stood at the front desk of the Antioch senior home, thinking it had to be 110 degrees in there. The echo of the security guard’s plastic fan reverberated throughout the yellow-tinted hallway. Allen signed his name on the sheet. The security guard watched a video of a street fight on his phone, and obviously not caring that Allen was there, dug into his wide left nostril and scratched the inside. Allen grimaced and plopped the pen down. He stepped away from the desk and bent to pick up the box and walked around the corner and saw his father pressed against the door jamb of his apartment as if he were a spy on reconnaissance.
“Why you be looking out the door like that?” “Like what … ?” “Like you on the lookout for enemies or something.” “You said it.” “What?” “Enemies. I keep my eye out. When you stop looking, then all of a sudden, they pop up.” It had been twenty years since his father had pulled a stickup, but he still acted as if the enemies were coming for his blood. Would they even recognize him?
Allen stopped in front of the door as his father stepped back into the apartment to allow him entrance.
Allen shook his head. The dimness of the place caused Allen to slow his stride a bit, until his eyes adjusted. He pursed his lips as he felt the soles of his Jordans stick to the hallway floor of his father’s apartment. “You spill something?”
“It was that fool Rush. He wasted some Kool-Aid.” Allen kept walking through the hallway; the sound of his shoes freeing themselves and getting stuck again and again, sounded like suction cups sticking and loosening from a smooth surface. He stepped quickly until he was into the living room which was carpeted. He turned and faced his father.
“You ain’t clean it up?” “No mop.” Allen sighed and sat in the corduroy recliner that moved with his father no matter where he was thrown out of.
He took out his car key and used the jagged edge to slice through the thick packing tape of the boxed floor fan.
“Thanks for bringing that over,” his father said. “I didn’t have an extra like I thought. I had to buy it. Target.” “Ahh! Baby boy, you on strike … man! Thank you. I know you short on loot lately.”
“It’s no problem.” “You gotta put that one together, huh?” “Yep.” “I ain’t got no tools.” “It’s cool. I brought my own. We only need a Phillips-head for this.” “Ooh.” Allen began to assemble the fan. And as he put part 1A into part 1B and such, he would occasionally swat his father’s hands away.
“I’m good man. I got this.” Allen had never seen his father hold any tools. He only remembered his hands holding onto dice, gripping .38 revolvers with thick, gray duct tape on the handles, and being broken and bloody from pool hall fights.
As his father spoke and stuttered through small talk, Allen tightened the final screw.
“Looks good.” “Forget looks; let’s hope it cools this hot joint off,” Allen said. Allen plugged the fan into the far wall and then positioned it to hit right on his father. He clicked the knob on the back and then the whir of the blades filled the room. Allen pulled another smaller knob on top of the fan and it began to rotate, left and right.
“Whew! … That’s what I’m talking about!” The air hit his father square in the face, and it reminded Allen of a dog with his head out the window of a car speeding up Lake Shore Drive.
“You should be cooler now.” “Yeah, this will be better, I appreciate it. Ummm …” “What?” Allen said as he stood up from the recliner, placing the Phillips-head into his back pocket.
“You know . . . I ain’t got no money right now . . . My check come in three days . . . but maybe I can ask around and get some favors called in or something.”
Allen stretched out his arm and his hand acted like a stop sign. “It’s good. … The union say we should be back at work any day now.” “You sure is taking care of your dad, man. Using money, you don’t have to take care of me.”
Allen shook his head, “I couldn’t let my old man roast in this apartment.”
“Yeah, I ain’t ready to die. I heard six or seven old folks have passed away in this heat.”
Allen started toward the door, nodding at his father, thankful that communication had been easier lately. He placed his hand on his father’s shoulder and glanced into his eyes which seemed to have gotten dull since he had seen him last.
He walked on and called back over his shoulder, “You pay good rent, no reason the management can’t fix your air conditioning.”
“Yeah they don’t want to do nothing around here. But if that thing was broke, I’d cuss they asses out.”
Allen stopped dead on the sticky floor. “What? The air ain’t broke?” he said without turning around. “Naw, it work. If I cut it on, this whole place would be icier than a motherfucker. It would send my electric bill through the roof, though.”
Allen bit into his lower lip. His heart skipped a beat and he wanted to turn around and blast the old man for being his old selfish ass. He had once again put himself on the top shelf, above him, his sister, his daughter and his grandchildren. Allen’s last twenty had gone to purchase the fan.
“But, hey thank you, baby boy. You should stay and we can have a beer. You mind going to the store?”
Allen shook his head, eyes forward on the front door. “Naw. I got to get back. Kids will be home from school soon.” “I really hope you be back at work soon, baby boy.” Allen didn’t say anything. He continued across the sticky floor, through the door, and back into the yellow-tinted hall and blazing heat.
Tony Bowers is a tenured assistant professor of English & Creative Writing at the College of DuPage; where he currently serves as the co-chair of the creative writing committee. He holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Columbia College and a Masters in Teaching from National Louis University. He is the 2006 recipient of the Follett Fellowship in Creative Writing and his short story collection On the Nine was published by Vital Narrative Press in 2015. He is hard at work on his first novel, A Dollar Short.
