Sure Was

by eric overbey

We approach the rolled carpet from opposite sides, raising the ten year collection of soda and cat piss above our heads, it’s organs caving into a grin and bleeding hazy streaks. We drop it, a splat of clumpy goo, my brother Allen moaning, It’s in my eye, it’s in my eye.

I hear the television playing my favorite show inside and watch carpet bile drip from my fingertips.

Before Allen brought his grumbling, I was alone in the front yard, the carpet a weighty thing kicking my shins. I watched the Willis family across the street, together raking their leaves onto the blue tarp, dropping the rakes, dragging the tarp, lifting and dumping into the fire, autumn ash rising, then floating, then gone.

Allen circles the carpet, arms crossed, a police officer surveying a dead body, frayed tan veins flopping in the cold breeze. Why didn’t you call me yesterday? he says, shaking his head. I didn’t think it would rain, I say. He shoves his hand into the carpet, shoveling an impossible amount of soupy white innards out, the smell of aged milk stunning. But, now we have this.

We domino topple the column from one end, over and over, thumping and thumping. Tripping, continuing down the driveway, a muddy creek in our wake.

We stand, hands on hips, It’s supposed to fit in there? he says. I motion towards the yard and say, there’s nowhere else to put it.

Together lifting, him screaming, we throw it in the trash can. It swirls around the plastic and sinks to the bottom, unraveling and filling the can with its scarred circle, but still peeking over the lip, eyeing us. Allen flips it off with both hands, like he really means it.

We sit on the porch, passing a cigarette between us. I say, Hell of a storm last night. Holding his back and rubbing his eye, he says, Sure was.