Poetry by David LaBounty

Deadeye

 

 

the next day,

 

her made-up and

very white

face pulled

tight blonde

hair pulled

 

tight in some

ponytail with

some new-agey

turquoise southwestern clip.

 

YOU GUYS

she yelled

with her two

kids behind her

 

FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS

and you didn’t fix

ANYTHING.

 

what do you mean

I asked with my

dead eyes as

my eyes are no

stranger to screaming.

 

MY BRAKES,

they’re GRINDING

and SQUEAKING

and SMOKING

and you guys said

you fixed

them but YOU
DIDN’T DO
ANYTHING.

 

I took her keys

as she spit

REFUND

in my face.

 

it was a minivan

and my shop

is a constant

and dirty toybox

full of suv’s and

minivans driven

by a bleak landscape

of pale faces

and nerves drawn

so very, very tight.

 

I drove it.

 

down the street

past the shopping

center with the

Starbucks at the end.

 

the brakes

were smooth

and quiet and

I even slammed

on them leaving

a skid mark

in front of the

Starbucks as

pale faces

with tight mouths

looked up from

their cups and

laptops and newspapers

as I interrupted

their morning

of nothingness.

 

I went back

in the shop.

 

she stood in

the waiting

room with

her arms

folded across

her chest and

her two kids,

a boy and a

girl eight or

nine or ten,

sat on the

ledge by the

showroom window

with their backpacks

behind them.

 

ma’am,

 

your brakes

are fine, I

can probably

double check

them if you

like, make

sure they’re

okay and I

remembered

her brakes of

yesterday, the

pads all but

missing, the

rotors a circle

of chewed up metal.

 

I KNEW THAT’S

WHAT YOU’D SAY.

 

and she grabbed her keys

out of my hand, and

threatened me with a

call from her husband

 

and husbands,

 

they never call.

 

her kids followed

her out of the shop

and they looked back

at me with their pale faces

 

tight mouths

 

and

 

dead eyes.