A continuation of In-App Purchases #1
Frank sat in his beat-up old truck, disbelief washed over his face. A letter crumpled a bit between his fingers. Five thousand dollars. Too many hours worked away at the pulp mill to think about, especially for his tired old bones. Five thousand dollars pissed away by the fluffy. The absurdity was almost too much. Biting at his bottom lip, he gave a hoarse laugh.
It was a quiet Sunday. The events of the previous day had rattled Willie and he was still awful hurt by his game being taken away, but his daddeh seemed forgiving at the least. In fact? They were out in the backyard playing a game. Digging a hole like they were at the beach. Willie had gone to the beach with the old man a few times and had always thoroughly enjoyed himself, flopping around the water. Eating good nummies off of the portable barbecue. Yes, digging lots of holes in the sand too. The fluffy figured himself quite a good digger. His daddeh had picked out a spot of good loamy Earth that came up easily. It was black and squishy, easy to displace even for a little guy like Willie. His hooves dug in, heâd nose up clumps of soil, and Frank would help him by picking out any of the pointy rocks or icky crawlies.
Willie dug for hours and hours, the longest of long times by any estimation a fluff could figure. Frank sat nearby only helping when needed, chainsmoking through a pack of Chesterfields and drinking peach Nehi with an unending zeal for the sugary stuff. Will was allowed to take a break at lunch, the hole deep enough that the old man had to scoop the pony out.
âDoinâ good work on that hole, Willie.â Heâd say, cigarette tucked to the corner of his lips as he sat a bowl of âsketti down. The pony, red fur streaked through with swaths of dirt, gave a proud expression and a happy tail wag. âWewwy?â He asked, wanting an answer before he dug down into the tomato-sauce slop set down in front of him. âGold star, pal.â
Tummy full of âskettis and a heart bursting with pride, Willie went right back into the hole with gusto. More hours had slipped by, his owner sitting next to the growing mound of dirt on a lawnchair. A hazy afternoon had given way to evening as mosquitos buzzed around them. Frank had set out an electric lantern, swatting away mosquitos as he listened to a cattle auction on the portable radio heâd lugged out as well.
âDaddeh.â Came a weary voice from down in the hole. My that critter had done a wonder. Heâd gotten fat from playing the videogame but one could see he still had plenty of perk left. âYessir, Chilly-Willie?â Frank answered in a drawl, stubbing out another cigarette. âFeew wawas now. Nu wikeâŚâ Came the response, some of the enthusiasm having gone out of the voice from within the hole. Yeah, these things hated cold âwawasâ.
âFore I get you outân that hole, Willie, want to ask you a question. You feel bad about yesterday? About beinâ ornery?â He asked despite knowing the answer. The answer was obvious. Preordained, just as likely as taxes. It was too dark now. Too dark to see the expression on the little moronâs face. Confusion, he knew that would be it. âYis daddeh! Wiwwy vewy sowwy!â He could hear the sound of hooves scrabbling against the sides of the hole, the loam sinking down and collapsing. The fluffy couldnât get out no matter how hard he tried. Before it could sink into desperation at itâs plight, Frank would say: âWillie. Close your eyes. No peekinâ. Then itâll be all better.â
He waited a few moments. The red and blue stallion excitedly blurted out: âWuv daddeh too! Wuv su su muchsies! Wan warm baff, huggsiesâŚ.â Frank had tuned out the spiel. Lifting up the lantern, making sure the stallion wasnât peeking. He didnât want him to see the .38 being unstrapped from his hip. The little guy was scared of it. Guns or fireworks sent him into hysterics. By the lantern-light, heâd level the barrel up. âLove you too, Willie.â
A few months later his daughter had come back in from California for Thanksgiving. She had been in near hysterics when heâd told her about how Willie had died. Pneumonia, heâd said. Carefree one day and dead as a doornail the next. Didnât like to tell lies but this was one that couldnât hurt.
âYou really loved him, didnât you dad?â She asked, a few tears snaking down her cheeks. Heâd taken a sheet of slate and chiseled down Willieâs name as a gravemarker. The loamy soil where heâd dug his own grave was a thrush of flowers that had grown in. Mums, mostly. Cheerful as a little backyard grave could be.
Frank just gave her a creased smile and nodded back to the house.