South Village (Ash McKenna) by Rob Hart

but you can’t do so many dumb things strung together and feel like you’re still welcome.
    I went to Portland, figuring I’d try a change of scenery, and made a mess there, too.
    So here I am. Standing on the edge of the world, running away from one dead body, smack into another one.
    “Hey.”
    I turn to find Gideon standing on the other end of the shower platform. The tall lanky fuck, with his stupid fucking hemp necklace and scraggly goatee. Also, he’s naked.
    “Can I join?” he asks.
    I pivot a little to shield my bits. “Uh, no?”
    “Didn’t you ever do the group shower in high school? It’s no big deal. You’re wasting water standing there.”
    I grab the chain and cut the flow. “Can you give me a goddamn second?”
    Gideon rolls his eyes and retreats back into the cabana. I grab a towel off the rack, give it a strong flap to make sure there’s nothing alive on it, and wrap it around my waist. When I step inside he’s leaned against the wall, arms crossed, like he’s waiting for a train. Hips thrust forward like he wants to make me uncomfortable.
    “You know, some people like a little privacy,” I tell him.
    “I didn’t take you for a prude.”
    “I’m not a prude. I want to shower by myself.”
    He raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Typical gay panic. We all have penises, bud. It’s no different than a hand or a foot. It’s a part of your body and it’s not something to be ashamed of.”
    I grab at my clothes, which are so drenched with sweat as to be repulsive, ball them up, and slip into my sneakers. As I’m leaving Gideon calls after me, “Hey, so Tibo said you were with him when the cops came.”
    “Yes.”
    “Anything worth noting?”
    Sigh. I step back into the sink room. I can make Gideon out through the gaps in the wooden poles as he reaches up and pulls the chain for the shower. “Did you talk to Tibo?” I ask.
    “Yes. But I’d like to hear it from you, too.”
    “You know, you’re a pretty shitty head of security,” I tell him. “Why weren’t you there?”
    “Today is my writing day,” Gideon says. “I was working on my manifesto.”
    I don’t bother to stifle the laugh. “I’ve got to get dinner served. Let’s talk later.”
    “Well, don’t go causing any trouble.”
    “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
    Gideon peeks around the wall and into the sink room, his hair plastered against his skull. “Don’t think I don’t know what’s up.”
    “Why don’t you tell me what the fuck you’re talking about?”
    “I know Tibo wanted you to take the security job. But that’s my job. I’m responsible for the protection of this camp. Don’t think I’m going to let you take it away from me.”
    “I don’t want your job, asshole.”
    “Well, just know, I’m watching you.”
    I nod toward the shower. “You’re wasting water.”
    He purses his lips and disappears behind the barrier.
    Something deep in my gut wants me to walk around the divider and throw him up against the wall and ask him how tough he’s willing to play this. Show him how scary real life can get. But I don’t do that. Instead I leave, out into the forest.
    Fucking Gideon.
    Within moments I’m nearly fully dry. Something flies up under my towel and I flap it loose, keep walking. I step off the wooden walkway and into the dirt, navigate a thin trail through the brush until my bus appears out of the woods. The paint is shorn off, down to the gunmetal gray chassis. The engine block and tires missing. The few windows that are open are covered with tight layers of mosquito netting. My addition, when I moved in.
    No one wants to live in the bus. I don’t know why. Maybe because it’s remote. So far from camp you can’t hear anything. There’s also something vaguely apocalyptic about it. And it was in sorry shape when I showed up. Very sorry shape. It took a few days of cleaning and dragging furniture out here to bring it up to a livable standard.
    Livable for me. Because fuck this