Tourists of the Apocalypse by C. F. WALLER

boyfriends. Jarrod had been here since my tenth birthday. I can’t believe I survived almost four years of Jarrod . I decide to worry about my mother’s employability at a later date.
    As I climb the stairs, I pass a pile of boxes containing Jarrod’s belongings. I find it odd that he didn’t take anything with him. I was instructed to gather them up and put them here, but no further direction was offered. I’ll ask Graham about this later .
     
    …
     
    Graham wasn’t exaggerating the time and effort required to manage all three homes. My entire summer is dedicated to building flower boxes and mowing lawns. The outcome is good since I get a month ahead on the mortgage and even manage to keep the cable TV on.
    I get to know most of our new neighbors as well. In the house next door are four guys. None of them use actual names, which makes it feel like a frat house movie. There is a heavyset black guy they call T-Buck, who is obsessed with cars. Many old ones come and go from his house, most arriving on trailers and leaving the same way. It’s not uncommon for an engine revving to startle me awake in the middle of the night. A smallish pale skinned fellow they call Blister follows him around constantly. From what I have observed he is T-Bucks assistant, always handing him tools and running after stuff. His complexion is pasty and he stays out of the sun like a vampire.
    The other two are like Siamese twins. Cain and Abel are frail, almost effeminate looking. Both have shoulder length brown hair worn in either a stubby ponytail or pushed back with a girlish looking headband. They often wander to Lance’s house consulting with him on this or that. Cain carries a clipboard everywhere he goes, never setting it down. They share similar olive complexions and green eyes.
    The middle house is Graham’s, but a chubby man with thick glasses also stays there. He’s balding and on most occasions sweaty. He almost always wears a white dress shirt and khaki slacks. This ensemble is made odder by the high top tennis shoes that never leave his feet. He goes by Mr. Dibble, a title all of them use religiously. He reminds me of Dilbert rather than Dibble, but Graham did not think this was as funny as I did. It almost seemed like he didn’t know who Dilbert was?
    The third house, kiddy corner across the oval turnaround is Lance’s. He and Izzy live there leading me to believe they are a couple. As previously stated, I haven’t seen any wedding rings, but his body language around her is very possessive. Izzy, for her part, appears to defer to him, but they all do so I can’t be sure about that. Lance is tall, well over six-feet, with dark hair pulled back in a man-bun. They all look to be in their late twenties or early thirties, but Lance is probably the oldest.
    I’m just finishing up raking Lance’s yard when Dickie’s silver Mustang sputters down the street. He’s doesn’t turn into his driveway four houses back on the corner, but instead continues down to me. It’s not really his house, but rather his mothers. Dickey’s mom is a recluse, almost never setting foot outside. She’s walks with a walker and last I saw her, Dickey was taking her to a doctor’s appointment several months ago. My own mother is the only person I know who has actually spoken to her, but she won’t comment. My mother won’t say anything if she has nothing nice to say . Jerry, the paperboy, and I often joke that when she dies, Dickie won’t tell anyone so he can keep cashing her government checks. A gruesome image of her body in a basement refrigerator often haunts me at night after these little chats with Jerry.
    Stopping clumsily at an angle in the open circle, the car coughs to a stop, blue smoke huffing out of only one tailpipe. Dickie hops out and leans over the roof staring at me. He’s skinny with an unkempt mullet of dark greasy hair. Sparse hairs on his chin reveal he can’t really grow a beard, but would like one. As per usual, he’s