Page 213 of Phobia
My forehead lines.They’re not from around here…
I can tell right away, because I don’t feel likeI’mfrom around here either. No matter how long I’ve lived in Riot Park, I still feel like an outsider. The people here don’t get me, and I don’t get them.
Ned is mumbling something aboutcity-slickersthat makes no sense as I continue to stare at the kid, walking the woman up into the trailer. He’s gone only for a moment before he trots back outside and starts pulling things out of the bed of their truck, carrying them inside.
They’re moving in.
We have new neighbors.
Blinking heavily, I shake my head, ridding it of my worrisome thoughts. The kid looks to be about my age. A darker complexion than mine, short hair with a bit of a fade. That’s as much as I can make out from where I’m standing, other than his bright blue sneakers and skinny jeans.
Which reminds me that I’m wearing only my gray joggers. Shirtless and shoeless, standing here all twitchy.
The kid stops moving for a moment and looks up, right in my direction. I turn away quickly, disguising the fact that I was just staring at him. Rubbing my eyes, I ignore the distraction and try to focus, raking fingers through my hair.
“If… if you see Lena, will you tell her I’m looking for her?” I mutter to Ned, slinking away from him.
“You got it, kid,” Ned says, but I’m already scurrying back toward my place. “Hey, I like the blue!” He shouts after me, and I wave him off.
I’m focusing on getting back inside. I guess I need to get ready for work. Plus, I’d rather not embarrass myself in front of new people by standing around outside barely dressed like some raggedly trailer park boy.
Stalking with my head down, I pad my way up the dirt path and back in the house, slamming the door behind me with a huff.
No time for this. I’ll call Lena while I get ready.
I’m sure she’s around.
I’m sure she’sfine.
She has to be.
***
It’s dark outside as I’m walking back from work. My muscles are sore, and I’m sweaty from hours of hauling dead carcasses around. I’m definitely tired.
But then, I’malwaystired.
I’m eating a Pop Tart while I stroll the dirt roads that wind through Riot Park, passing the other run-down, junky old trailers. Nothing here is nice. Residents try to spruce up their homes with potted plants and decorations. Those colorful chili pepper lights and lawn ornaments.
I understand the appeal, because this place would look pretty awful without the little drabs of tiki-style decor. It’s still white-trash as hell, but at least now it’scolorful.
Theriot is poor, and in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by bayou and swamp forest. I’m used to having no money, but the thing I can’t stand is being so far away from the civilized world.
I miss thecity. I miss the culture, and the fast-paced, convenience of it all.
We can’t even get DoorDash out here, not that I could afford it, if itwereavailable.
There are no artists in the park, which isn’t very encouraging. Unless you count Benny, the guy who plays CCR on his acoustic guitar almost every night.
If I have to hearLookin’ Out My Backdoorone more time, I might swallow my own tongue.
Wandering to my trailer, I can’t help peering next door. It’s weird to see lights on inside… No one’s lived there in a while. But now the windows are lit up. And there’s a gnome sitting right by the steps. It makes me smile.
“Hey, guys,” I mumble to the weathered pink plastic flamingos in front of our place as I ascend the two small steps, opening the door and slipping inside.
I’m hit in the face with the heat, and I cringe.Jesus… It’s like an oven in here.
Kicking off my favorite black combat boots, I make a beeline to turn on the air conditioner.
