Unexpectedly, Milo - Matthew Dicks [101]
“Louis,” the woman said. “This kid wants empty bottles for the Boy Scouts. They’re recycling.”
“Cans too,” Milo added, hoping the normalcy of his words would somehow compensate for the insanity of the rest of the living room scene.
“You know where they are. Go get ’em,” Louis said in a voice that was nasally, authoritative, and disinterested. He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, eyes still affixed to the television screen, where the writhing continued.
“Wait here,” the woman said. “The bottles are in the basement. I’ll be back in a sec.”
Please don’t leave me here, Milo wanted to say as the woman disappeared through a short hall into a kitchen and beyond. Instead, he stood his ground as instructed, desperately searching for something in the room on which to affix his own gaze while he waited. Anything but the television.
Unfortunately, the room was lacking of anything else of interest. Stairs to Milo’s left ascended to the second floor. An identical recliner stood about three feet to the left of Louis’s recliner, both pieces of furniture filling the center of the room, with a folding tray occupying the narrow space between the two. The top of the tray was littered with Chinese food containers, opened cans of Tab and Fresca, and half a bag of miniature marshmallows. Several marshmallows had fallen onto the floor beneath the tray, alongside a discarded pair of chopsticks and a plastic container of dental floss.
“Come over here, kid,” Louis said, finally turning away from the television long enough to make eye contact with Milo. As he lifted himself from the cushions of the recliner in order to pivot, Milo could see that his body barely filled the tank top that he was wearing. The twin strips of cotton holding it up were struggling to maintain their purchase on the man’s measly shoulders.
“Thanks,” Milo said. “But I’ll just wait by the door. I don’t want to be a bother. I’ll be out of here in just a minute.”
“Come over here, kid,” Louis repeated with authority that did not match his insubstantial frame. “Annie’s gonna be a minute. I just toss my empties down the cellar stairs. She’s gonna have to pick ’em up and stick ’em in a bag. And get the ones in the garage too.”
Milo had no desire to close the distance between himself and the pornography on the screen, but he also couldn’t ignore this man’s request. Though Milo suspected that the man was a loon, he did not appear dangerous or even rude. So moving as slowly as possible, all the while praying that Annie would return with the recyclables, Milo crossed the living room until he was adjacent to the empty recliner.
“Take a seat,” the man said, this time not bothering to look up at his guest. At this distance, Milo could see a name badge stuck to his tank top that read:
Hello, my name is:
Below these preprinted words, written in red ink, was
Louis, AKA Hot Potato
“Take a seat, man,” Louis repeated, now breaking away from the pornography long enough to make eye contact with Milo and motion to the empty recliner. Unable to resist, Milo sat, sinking into the chair further than he had expected. He suddenly felt trapped.
“Want a marshmallow?” Louis asked, pushing the bag in Milo’s direction. Several marshmallows tumbled to the floor, joining their compatriots in surrounding the chopsticks.
“No, thank you,” Milo said, watching three more marshmallows plummet from their perch as Louis returned the bag to the tray.
“Your loss.”
The man’s eyes returned to the screen, where the moans and pants were increasing in frequency and intensity, but Milo remained turned toward the second recliner. “Thank you for donating the bottles and cans,” he said, not wanting to stare at the man without trying to make conversation.
Louis nodded.
“We’re going to use the money to go to camp this summer.”
“Just gimme a second, kid. This is almost done.”
Milo was perfectly willing to give the man a minute, but he wanted to avoid the television screen at all costs. Anything but the writhing images of the naked people illuminated five feet away. But this left him staring