There’s a trailer between James’s place and mine, a 70's model Fleetwood, single-wide rental that is proof of there being no Government enforced regulations in these parts, as to what is and is not inhabitable.
The Trailer's current and primary tenant is a tattooed and heavily pierced young man, named James as well. He's come over a couple of times, talks incessantly, and always as if he were about to cry. Up-the-road James, says he isn't quite right, but has only offered as proof, Trailer James's lack of Drivers Licence and middle school education. With Trailer James—from what I’ve gathered—live a young woman, an undetermined amount of children (hers, I assume), a mother (also hers), who is missing a leg, and two dogs, Amy and Harley.
Amy is a vicious little sausage of a dog. Not a wiener kind of sausage. Amy’s more along the lines of a Little Smoky, something you’d find stuffed and rigid in the pillowed recesses of some antique store—the classic lap dog.
Harley is a sausage as well, though much larger than Amy, a sort of black and tan Basset with stubby legs, mainsails for ears and a belly that is in constant need of rubbing.
Perhaps Pete sensed this love in passing. Perhaps his previous home had a similar abandoned quality to the Trailer. Perhaps the children, buzzing around the threadbare yard, were equally familiar. Perhaps Harley had invited him to come and sit on the porch. God knows it wasn’t Amy, viscous as she is. Whatever the case, the Trailer was where Pete arrived next on his journey.