By Jeff Harvey
It was the afternoon Pete and his mom moved in next door and Pete asked to fill a bucket from our water hose. Said they were always moving. From Memphis to Omaha to Reno. Moving because the rent was months behind, moving when his mom got fired from a casino job, moving after his mom had pissed off a neighbor’s wife.
It was the day our teacher asked Pete why they kept moving. Pete said his mom had told him, we always keep following the money. A month later they moved to San Diego. His mom had met a navy guy with an apartment on the beach.
It was the night before they moved, and Pete’s mom had a date, and I stayed over. We ate fish sticks, RC Cola, and watched Mary Tyler Moore on a tiny black and white with rabbit ears covered with aluminum foil. Pete won an arm-wrestling contest and got to pick what we did next. He pulled out his mom’s clothing, and we both wanted to be Rhoda with lots of jewelry, scarves, and a tangy attitude.
Jeff Harvey lives in San Diego. His work has appeared in or is forthcoming in Ghost Parachute, Five South, FlashFlood Journal, MoonPark Review, Bending Genres, Blink Ink, and other places.
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