The Shed Out Back
by Keith Rawson

Nina keeps trying to get me to quit smoking.

She’s nonstop about the shit; every time I get up, put on my slippers and head  for the sliding glass door she starts in on me.

“Aren’t you worried about dying?” She’ll ask.

I’ll say that we all gotta die of something.

“Don’t you ever think about lung cancer? Don’t you ever think about emphysema?”

I’ll admit that I don’t.

“Think about all the money you’ll save if you quit.”

I come back and ask her what she thinks I’ll spend my money on other than cigarettes? And she’ll say:

“Well, you could buy me flowers.” I usually snort at that one. In the fifteen years we’ve been together I don’t think I’ve ever bought her flowers, not even when she gave birth to our son. Jewelry, clothes, cars, a couple of houses, yeah, but I never thought of buying her flowers, it just never crossed my mind.

The one that bugs me the most is:

“Do you ever think about what kind of example you’re setting for our son?”

I want to jam my fist down her throat every time she brings that shit up.

I want jump on top of her, pin her shoulders to the tile, and wail on her until her face is a red flattened mess

But instead of jumping on her, I let my mind go dark and blank, step outside, and head to the shed out back.

The shed is one of those do-it-yourself aluminum jobs you buy at Home Depot. The thing came in a huge box that took four Mexicans to load out of the delivery truck and into the backyard. I didn’t have ‘em assemble it even though it was only an extra fifty bucks; sometimes I don’t mind working with my hands, especially if it’s small detail stuff like the shed. The big fucker took me two days to slap together; there must’ve been a couple thousand screws, bolts, and washers to put it all together with; tedious, very tedious. But I had a good time with it, the weekend I put it together was gorgeous, perfect seventy degree days; I worked without my shirt on, letting the gentle sun redden my shoulders. The boy spent most of both days out there with me, chasing after Nina’s little dog, drawing on the patio concrete with pastel sidewalk chalk, bringing me cold beers and ice water from the house when I got hot.

I gotta admit I was pretty proud of myself when I finished up; to be honest I don’t know why I bought and built the goddamn thing? You’re suppose to keep your gardening stuff and tools in there, but it’s been a good ten or fifteen years since I had to mow a lawn, so what I did was drag my two little tool boxes out there from the garage and an old push mower and hedge clippers that used to belong to my old man that I’ve kept around for sentimental reasons; plus I set up a little table and chairs out in front. I go out there most mornings with my coffee, paper, and smokes until it gets too hot. I love it out there; even on the hottest days when the sun’s burning so hard you’re practically melting.

Nina gave me the ‘what kind of example are you setting for our son’ line again when I headed out around seven tonight. I didn’t look at her or acknowledge her presence even though she kept saying the same thing over and over, her voice clogging with tears and snot. She hasn’t been same since the commies grabbed the boy; but then again, neither am I; I just have an easier time of holding my shit together, that and I have an outlet, Nina doesn’t have shit, the boy was her outlet, the boy was all she had.

The Russian fucks made the grab a month ago. Say what you will about the wops and the Mexicans, yeah, they’re ruthless motherfuckers; they’ll torture you inside and out to get what they want, but they won’t go near your family; women and children are strictly off limits. The Russians though, they play nothing but dirty pool. They came into Phoenix wanting a piece of everything:

Labor,
prostitution,
drugs,
gambling . . . and they just didn’t want a piece of my action, they wanted it all.

The grey hound track, my OTB operations, the numbers joints my old man started up back in the day when it was just the Mormons and Indians stumbling over their own dicks trying to run things.

The first time they came to me, I laughed in their faces and told ‘em to fuck off; the second time we put a couple of their guys in the hospital with broken bones and concussions from having Heineken bottles busted across their heads.

The third time they came was to grab Nina and the boy when they were coming out of the Metrocenter mall. Nina was a tough nut; they had to put a bullet in her to get the boy away from her.

They made the call to me two hours after the grab.

I told ‘em to eat shit.

Twelve hours after, they sent me the boy’s ear.

And every twelve after, same thing, new package.

I didn’t crack; I didn’t give in, even when they sent me his head.

I just went ahead and made my own grab.

I went after the brainiac who ran their operation; the stupid shit, he was walking around by himself like he didn’t have a care in the world.

His name’s Milos Something or other, and I’ve gotta admit, he’s one tough motherfucker. I’ve had him in the shed for two weeks in the middle of one of the hottest summers on record and he’s the one reason I won’t quit smoking.

I just enjoy putting my butts out on him too much.

BIO: Keith Rawson lives in the Phoenix, AZ suburb of Gilbert with his wife and daughter. He has had fiction published (or waiting to be published) in such venues as DZ Allen’s Muzzle Flash fiction, PowderBurn Flash, Flashshots, Darkest before the Dawn, A Twist of Noir, Bad Things, Crooked, Pulp Pusher, CrimeWaV.com (podcast), Plots with Guns, Flash Fiction Offensive, and Yellow Mama. He is also working on the final draft of his first novel which is tentatively titled, Retirement.