Sometimes I write short stories. 

A Van Down by the River

The sun is never up when he takes his morning piss. It’s usually cold and quiet, with only the sound of the river and some birds across the river. This morning was especially chilly. It took him a minute to get it started, but eventually, he had a good solid stream going. He didn’t mind the cold, it was refreshing to breathe in the fresh brisk air as he relived his body of the fluids he drank the night before. Everyone thought he was an alcoholic, he knew that’s what they thought. He remembered the time he heard someone say something about helping him get sober when he was buying a bottle of water at the mini-mart. He could tell that they were people who had office jobs and went out on the weekends drinking and gossiped about all the people in the office. Some had families who ate dinner every night and talked about their day and had movie nights on Sundays. They thought he was some crack addict that lives in a van down by the river. But, he stopped caring about what people thought. But, he usually thought about it during his morning piss, not that he cared, but he just liked to think about it. The piss ran down the rocks into the river. He thought about the kids who came down the other night and asked him if they could hot box in his van. He just grabbed their pot and dumped it in the river. Fuckin’ teenagers, they just don’t get it. He thought about their families and what they might think if they knew their perfect kids were running around toking and having sex instead of going to the library and doing their math homework. He finished his piss and thought about if he needed to go into town for anything. He opened the van door and put on his gray sweatshirt with a red t-rex on the front. He rubbed his hands together and breathed some hot air into them. He turned on the van and ABBA played from the radio. It was a cassette tape he got from the thrift store last month, he didn’t mind that the car only played cassettes, he liked it, it’s old school, just like the van. He began to stretch outside the van to start his morning meditation. He tried to clear his mind as he sat and stretched cross-legged in the dirt. He thought about the other night when a cat got into his van and he had hives and couldn’t sleep for a week because he was sneezing every two and a half minutes. He breathed in the brisk air through his nostrils. It had gotten so bad he wondered what would have happened if he wouldn’t have had a bottle of Benadryl in his van. He could have been killed by a fuckin’ cat. They wouldn’t have been surprised, they wouldn’t have given it a second thought. He’d just be the guy who lived in a van by the river who died from an overdose of cat hair. He breathed out and back in. But, who cares? He stopped caring, that’s why he lives in a van down by the river. He breathed in deep as the sun came up over the mountains.

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