HUMOR: Affordable Housing

Chuck stood in the driveway in front of his affordable house and looked out at the blazing Archuleta County sunset, fading rapidly from red to purple above the nearby hillside.  He could hear the boys running through the woods on the opposite side of the house.  Sounded like they were playing “Kill the Terrorist,” from the machine gun noises coming out of their mouths: “Bap-bap-bap-bap-bap-bap!”

Chuck smiled to himself.  David and Jeremy would of course be playing ‘The Valiant Americans’ — ‘Barry’ and ‘Joe’, they called themselves — and poor little Stevie would have to play the despicable terrorist, ‘Abdul.’

Chuck looked down the dirt driveway, between the tall pines, hoping to see his wife Becky walking up the driveway, coming home from her shift at the hospital.  No sign of her yet.  He took a swig from his green bottle of non-alcoholic beer and kicked at a stone that had poked its head out the dirt in front of him. Another Sunday evening without his wife.

That weird contagious virus that was going around — the one that made your fingernails look kinda greenish.  Sure was causing a lot of late hours for Becky.  Chuck rubbed his hands together and then took a quick glance at his fingernails.  No problemo… the color was a normal; nothing to worry about.

Sunday used to be such a special day, before Becky had started working seven days a week.  Between Chuck’s day job with Luxury Lawns & Landscapes and his night job pouring drinks at the Stinkwater Saloon, his only day off had been on Sunday, and he and Becky and the boys had made it their tradition to walk over to the lake and pull out enough yellow perch for Sunday dinner.  The boys had always ended up wet and muddy, of course, but Chuck didn’t mind.  What’s a little mud when you’re having fun?

But he and Becky just kept going deeper in debt every month.  Finally, Becky had put her foot down: “Chuck, either you gotta get a third job, or else I need to take on some more hours at the Hospital. No two ways about it.”

“Whaddaya mean, take on a third job?” Chuck had barked at her. “Holy catfish, I only got one day a week off as it is.  I’m working twelve to sixteen hours a day, except on Sunday. I hardly get to see my boys, as it is.”  He was about to say, “And we hardly have any private time in bed anymore…” But then he didn’t, for some reason.

“Well you know how bad our finances are, Chuck.  I maxed out another VISA card just yesterday.  It’s either that, or we gotta find us a smaller house.”

Well, if that didn’t take the cake.  A smaller house.

“You gotta be kidding.  If our house was any smaller, I’d have to take off my boots to fit inside,” Chuck snorted.

“You hadn’t oughta wear your boots in the house anyway,” Becky had shot back, with an angry glare.  Chuck knew that look very well.  Well, Chuck old buddy, no private time in bed tonight.

Now the darkness was dropping down and beginning to wrap shadows around the pine trees in the yard. Chuck took another swig from the bottle and started meandering back toward the house.  Looked like Becky would be home really late, again tonight.

“Okay boys!  It’s getting dark.  Come on inside and get yourselves ready for bed,” Chuck called out.

David came bursting out of the woods, followed by Jeremy and then Stevie, pulling leaves out of his curly black hair.  They headed for the side door but Chuck put out a hand and stopped them.  “We’re gonna be taking off our boots before we go inside, from now on,” Chuck told them sternly.

“Aw, come on, Dad,” the boys started to whine, but when they saw the serious look on their father’s face, they quickly sat down and pulled off their boots.

“Mom’s working long hours lately, boys.  We gotta start keeping the house cleaner.  It’s a small house, but it’s all we got.”

“Yeah, we know, we know,” the boys grumbled as they piled in.  Chuck slid the side door closed behind them.  Then he walked around the front to the driver’s side, and opened the door and climbed in.

Yes, it was a small house, but it was all they had.  If only this darn steering wheel was a bit smaller, Chuck thought to himself as he settled into the bucket seat, I’d have a pretty darn comfortable bed.

Louis Cannon

Louis Cannon

Underrated writer Louis Cannon grew up in the vast American West, although his ex-wife, given the slightest opportunity, will deny that he ever grew up at all.