I was honored to have my short story “Kenny” published by Levee Magazine last week.
It’s a long piece (8,000 words), and I’ve worked on it for a while. It’s good to see it finally in print. Here’s an excerpt:
* * *
“That’s good, baby. I wish ol’ Kenny could say the same, but damn! My kid—my ten-year-old kid—I just found out today he’s goin’ to school with a hole in his pants. Right on the butt, babe. The butt! He’s only got two pairs of pants and one’s got a big ol’ hole right here.” Kenny twists and points on his own grimy jeans. “His underpants all showin’ and everything!”
“That’s rough.” I glance toward the kitchen, where the clinks of cans and bottles have stopped.
“You remember being that little, don’t you, man? Well—damn, kids are mean.”
John emerges from the kitchen, and I know the moment he sees Kenny. He breathes in once, short and clipped, and he presses his lips together until they disappear. He looks like a chimpanzee.
“My kid, he’s getting picked on every day for those pants and his underpants pokin’ out, and I don’t got money to get him new ones. He comes home and tells me, ‘the kids are makin’ fun a me again’—and I want to laugh, you know, because it’s funny, only it’s not.”
I can tell John wants to say something, but Kenny doesn’t give him an opening. Kenny doesn’t breathe between sentences. “He’s got this big ol’ hole right there! It’s my kid and it’s not so funny, and I don’t know what to tell him. We don’t got money? How’s he gonna get that?”
“Kenny,” John says.
“It’s messed up, man.”
“Kenny—”
“How am I gonna tell my kid—”
“Kenny, I’m not okay with people coming into my house.”
Kenny looks like he had been slapped. “Oh—this? I wasn’t comin’ in, man, I was jus’ explainin’ to you guys what’s goin’ on. Brothers say what’s up—that’s all, man. I jus’ don’t want things bein’ said second-hand, you know?”
“I know, Kenny. It’s okay. But next time—”
“If I did somethin’ wrong, I apologize.” Kenny raises his hands in surrender and backs through the doorway. “I never meant to offend no one.” He beams and points to the bag of cans and bottles in John’s hand. “That’s gold, baby! You’re the shit, you know that? You guys—both you guys—you’re the real shit.”
* * *