location: trailer park cookout (memorial day)
It was Wayne's turn to man the grill, tongs in one hand and a cold beer in the other. Ribeye was not on the menu today, but he and a few other trailer residents had pitched in to get more than enough burgers and hot dogs to feed everyone and anyone who showed up. On days like today, he preferred the company of his neighbors to dragging himself to a more privileged friend's cookout.
"If you don't want a burger that tastes like charcoal, get your patty now!" He called out to the crowd and waited for a line to start.
Hopper was leaning against the side of his car, a half-empty bottle of beer sweating in his hand, when Wayneâs voice cut through the smoke and the generic classic rock filtering out of someoneâs screen door. He exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke, dropped the butt, and crushed it beneath the heel of his boot. He didn't need to be told twice about the charcoal. He'd eaten enough of Wayneâs "well-done" hockey pucks over the years to know that timing was everything. Hopper grumbled, stepping away from the truck and walking over to the grill. His knees gave a faint, familiar pop, a souvenir from a lifetime of bad choices.
He held up his paper plate, nodding a quiet, respectful greeting to a couple of the Forest Hills regulars who were already lining up. Hopper liked it better down here anyway. No one at the trailer park asked him about town budgets, or why the north-side patrol was late, or expected him to make polite conversation over a five-dollar glass of wine. Here, if you brought a six-pack and didn't act like a prick, you were golden. "Give me one of the thick ones before you incinerate it," Hopper said, gesturing toward a patty that was still mostly pink on top.
