I got a suite and you got defeat Ain't there a man you can say no more? And, ain't there a woman I can sock on the jaw? And, ain't there a child I can hold without judging? Ain't there a pen that will write before they die? Ain't you proud that you've still got faces? Ain't there one damn song that can make me break down and cry? ~young american
One of the first people we met in this town was an older lady we now call Cartwheel. I think we may be the last people to have seen her alive. We were driving by her "Business" and saw all of her stuff for sale. We pulled over to see what she had to offer. Cartwheel looked like your regular old Lot Lizard. You know the type of woman in her late 30's that looks to be about 70 and can be found bartering blowjobs for 20's at truck stops? Well old cartwheel might as well have invented this look. She would surely make the cover of Methmothers Magazine. Well Cartwheel had two things she wanted to sell us. One was a bed with "only one owner". It looked like both she and the bed had spent the past 30 years in the back of a conversion van. The second was a recliner. I was interested in buying this brown leather recliner, with it being only $10 and all. Amanda asked her about it, and Cartwheel was more than happy to sit down and show her how it works. Cartwheel was probably more comfortable conducting business laying back, and so she pulled hard on the recline lever. She hadn't taken into account the speed at which this chair would transform or the fact that it was teetering at the top of a hill. The chair shot her back legs over body sending her tumbling down this hill like so many Mary Lou Rettons. Amanda looked at me with the "I don't know what to do" face, and I could tell she was thinking about making a run for the car. I pretended to text and acted like nothing happened. Cartwheel came up the hill like it was the summit of Mt. Everest covered with enough grass stains to pass as Mossman from the He-Man saga. She murmured something about there being more spring in the chair than she had anticipated. Amanda told her we'd be back the next day to pick it up, and Mossman said "Well, Ok but I ain't doin no tricks tomorrow". Apparently tumbling down a hill backwards towards the highway isn't an everyday thing for her.
The next day my dad drove us up in his truck to pick it up.. I noticed that the hill that Cartwheel rolled down was littered with stones and cement pieces. We went into her shop. It was dark, smokey, and dead silent. We heard a gasp and looked to our left where old Cartwheel was laying down on a couch with one of those sleep masks over her face. She abruptly sat upright like so mane Draculas at sundown and lifted one side of her eye mask. She glared at us and said "We aint open". I said "Oh. Your door is". She laid back down in coffin position and we walked out. We were silent and then my dad looked at me and said "She ain't open".
We drive by old Cartwheel's place a few times a week, but have never seen anything out for sale since, nor have we seen her. I would go by to check, but I'm to scared to find her lying in the same position. Arms crossed under a blanket with a sleeping mask. Her leathery body mummified and preserved by the 30 years of smoke in the room from a never ending chain of Pall Mall filterless.