I. That Ain’t FedEx
It a was dull morning in H-Town,
where the sun rose slow as molasses
and the coffee from Greasy Joe’s tasted like regret.
Benny sat in his robe—terrycloth,
blue like the sad part of a bruise—
stirring instant oatmeal with the enthusiasm
of a man told to dig his own grave.
Then came the knock,
sharp and final,
like a gavel banging on his chest.
“Package for Benjamin Wheeler.”
The courier held out an envelope
Accompanied by the words “you’ve been served”.
Benny took it with a half-hearted grin,
because that’s what you do in America—
you smile when it hurts
and hope nobody notices.
Back inside, he tore it open,
the paper’s edge slicing his thumb.
“Irreconcilable differences.”
The words hit him harder than the beer bottle
Jenny had thrown two weeks ago
when he joked about her meatloaf:
“A little dry, but hey, so’s Nevada.”
Adultery, it claimed,
though the only thing Benny had strayed on
was his diet.
“Well, shoot,” he muttered to his cat, Elvis,
who stared back with eyes that said,
“Welcome to Heartbreak Hotel, pal.”
II. The Scarlet Letter
Benny shuffled to work in yesterday’s loafers,
the soles flapping like broken dreams.
Everyone knew—of course they did.
In a suburb this small,
secrets spread faster than a grease fire at Denny’s.
He punched his time card with the solemnity
of a man clocking into his own funeral.
Coworkers whispered,
“Did you hear? Benny the funny guy—cheater!”
Their voices hung in the air,
thick as the smell of stale coffee
and decades-old carpet glue.
That night, he drove his old pickup—
“Fuss and Cuss,” as he called her,
though she hadn’t been reliable
since Clinton’s first term—
to a bar on the edge of town,
where the neon sign buzzed
“Fat Chance Saloon.”
Charlene was there,
leaning on the jukebox,
a woman who wore her cheap perfume
like armor.
Her laugh was a cackle,
her lipstick a shade of red
called “Homewrecker.”
“Buy me a drink?” she asked,
and Benny,
not knowing what else to do,
said yes.
III. No Rubber No Nothing
She kissed him behind the dumpster
while raccoons played poker in the shadows.
His hands, trembling with disuse,
fumbled like a drunk untying knots.
Her perfume was an oil slick,
and her lipstick smudged
into hieroglyphs he couldn’t decode.
When it was over—if you could call it over—
she patted his cheek and said,
“Welcome to freedom.”
Freedom tasted like bad tequila
and smelled like burnt hope.
The raccoons watched him leave,
and one of them, he swore,
whispered, “Rookie.”
IV. Spending, Spending…Spent
Benny started betting on everything:
football games he didn’t care about,
scratch-offs at the Circle K,
whether his neighbor’s dog
would bark before 9 a.m.
He walked into the casino
with his severance pay stuffed in his sock,
grinning like a man with nothing to lose.
“All on black,” he told the dealer,
a woman with eyes that had seen
a thousand bad decisions.
The wheel spun.
His pulse quickened.
The ball landed on red.
For a moment, he just stared.
Then he laughed—
sharp and hollow—
a sound that might’ve scared him once.
“Figures,” he muttered,
and walked out into the dark,
his wallet lighter,
his shoulders heavier.
V. Gulf Waters Rising
His kids stopped calling.
His eldest texted once:
“Mom says ur still a jerk. That true?”
Benny stared at the message
until the words blurred.
He typed back,
“Guilty as charged.”
The family photo on his fridge—
Yellowstone, 2015—
mocked him.
Jenny’s laugh, frozen in time,
felt like a slap.
Benny poured a glass of whiskey,
toasting the empty room.
“To irreconcilable differences,” he said,
though he barely believed the words himself.
VI. A Busted Acoustic to the Rescue
On the corner of Main and Despair,
Benny found an old guitar
missing two strings.
He strummed it anyway,
a chord that creaked
like an opening door.
By week’s end,
he was playing on street corners,
singing about raccoons and roulette wheels.
People tossed him coins,
and sometimes pity,
but at least they stopped to listen.
“Why’re you so sad?”
a kid asked one day.
Benny smiled,
his face crumpling like an old road map.
“Because sometimes funny doesn’t pay the bills.”
The kid handed him a quarter.
VII. Holy Foot Wash or $5 Pedicure
The rain came sideways,
pelting Benny like the slap
of an ex-lover’s hand.
He ducked into the first open door—
a church wedged between a pawn shop
and a nail salon promising
“$5 pedicures, No Refunds.”
Inside, the preacher wore shorts and crocs
and paced the stage,
spouting scripture like he was auctioning off souls.
“Brothers and sisters,
God don’t care where you been,
long as you’re heading somewhere better!”
The congregation shouted amen,
their voices raspy,
half from devotion, half from hangovers.
In the back row, Benny saw her—
Daisy,
her sparrow tattoo fluttering
as she tapped her foot
to the hallelujah band.
“Lost too?” she asked,
lighting a cigarette beneath
a crooked No Smoking sign.
Benny shrugged.
“Who isn’t?”
VIII. Sparrow Woman
Daisy smelled like rainwater and regret,
a mix Benny found strangely comforting.
Over greasy fries at a diner,
she told him about her ex,
a man who thought
a motorcycle was a personality.
“What about you?” she asked,
her eyes narrowed but curious.
“Divorced.
She said I cheated.
I didn’t,
but I guess I made up for it later.”
Daisy laughed,
low and throaty.
“So, what? You’re a scoundrel now?”
“Working on it,”
he said,
grinning like a man
with nothing left to lose.
IX. Red, Black and Green
The roulette wheel still whispered,
its spin a siren’s song.
Benny swore he’d quit,
but promises felt like smoke.
Daisy found him one night,
sitting at a table piled high
with chips he couldn’t afford to lose.
“What are you doing?” she hissed,
her nails digging into his sleeve.
“Living the dream,” he said,
though his grin didn’t reach his eyes.
“Whose dream?”
“Someone with lower standards.”
She dragged him outside,
past slot machines chiming like cruel laughter.
In the parking lot,
her hands shook as she lit a cigarette.
“You’re gonna lose everything,” she said.
Benny smiled,
soft but resigned.
“The only thing left to lose is me.”
X. Elvis Has Left the Building
One morning, Benny’s eldest, Caroline,
stood in his doorway,
arms crossed,
wearing her mother’s scowl.
“Got a minute?”
Her tone said it wasn’t a question.
Benny waved her in.
Elvis darted out the window,
sensing the tension.
She dropped an envelope on the table.
Inside was a photo of her graduation—
a moment Benny had missed,
lost somewhere between whiskey
and blackjack in Lake Charles.
“You can’t keep doing this,”
she said,
her voice as sharp
as the slap Benny knew he deserved.
“Doing what?”
He asked the question,
but he already knew the answer.
“Being you.”
XI. Sacking the Chairman of the Board
The karaoke bar smelled like stale beer
and broken dreams.
Benny figured it was as good a place as any
to sing Sinatra.
He climbed onto the stage,
gin in hand,
and belted out “My Way”
with the gusto of a man
who’d failed spectacularly
but wanted credit for effort.
The crowd booed,
though one woman cheered,
“Sing it, baby!”
A lime wedge bounced off Benny’s forehead,
and he couldn’t help but laugh.
Daisy yanked him off the stage
before the crowd could riot.
“You’re a disaster,” she said,
half laughing, half furious.
“Yeah, but I’m your disaster.”
For a moment,
she almost believed him.
XII. The Awakening
One morning, Benny woke
to a raccoon
sitting on his kitchen counter,
chewing on the crust
of last night’s pizza.
“You again,” Benny said.
The raccoon paused,
its eyes full of silent judgment.
It scurried out the window,
its tail flicking like a rebuke.
Later, Benny grabbed his guitar,
headed to his corner,
and sang about a raccoon
that might’ve been God.
XIII. The Truth, The Whole Truth and Nothing but The Lie
By now, Benny was a fixture
on Jefferson and Main,
a corner steeped in the scent of bread
he couldn’t afford to buy.
He told stories—
wild, sprawling epics about raccoons
and roulette wheels,
tales of love lost in laundromats
and fortunes found in sewer drains.
“You’re like a poet,” Daisy said,
watching him weave a tale
about a talking fish.
“Nah,” Benny replied,
his grin crooked.
“I just lie pretty.”
But deep down,
he knew his lies were truths,
wrapped in tinfoil,
shining in the dark.
XIV. Spin the Wheel
The casino lights called one last time,
their neon hum a ghost of old temptations.
Benny walked in,
his guitar slung over his shoulder,
his wallet empty of anything
but resolve.
“All on black,” he said,
his voice steady,
his heart a trembling wild horse.
The dealer hesitated,
then spun the wheel.
When the ball landed on black,
he laughed—a sound full of wonder
and disbelief.
Benny left the winnings untouched,
walking into the night
with nothing but his guitar
and a strange sense of peace.
“Why’d you do it?” Daisy asked later.
“Because I’ve been gambling my whole life,”
he said.
“Figured I’d bet on something that mattered.”
XV. Laughter
Rumors spread about Benny,
the man on Jefferson and Main
whose stories made grown men cry.
Caroline came first,
arms crossed tight,
like she was trying to hold herself together.
“You’re a mess, Dad,” she said.
“Yeah,” Benny replied,
“a regular garbage truck.”
strumming a lazy chord.
“Get ready for me to take a dump!”
Her lips twitched—
the start of a smile.
The younger two came later,
their wariness softened
by a story Benny told,
about a raccoon
who lost everything,
only to find
freedom wasn’t so bad.
They laughed.
And for Benny,
that was enough.
Epilogue: Benny and the Raccoon
In the alley behind the bar,
the raccoon perched on a trash can lid,
its eyes like two coins.
“Got any advice?” Benny asked.
The raccoon tilted its head,
then leapt into the shadows.
Benny slung his guitar
over his shoulder,
his heart full,
his pockets empty.
Back at the corner,
a crowd waited.
As Benny began to play,
he laughed—
not because life had gotten easier,
but because he’d learned
how to sing through the chaos.
