People Live Here: LENA - WAYNE'S TEARDROP

✨ Content is free—but birds like snacks.

This story is told through the eyes of a neighbor who called the motel home too.

LENA - WAYNE'S TEARDROP 

An overweight Burmese makes its nightly appearance, stretching out on the hood of our  van. Caleb clicks his tongue and offers his standard “Sup,” then asks, “Where’s your crew,  rat?” chuckling at the same joke every time. 

My lips are cracked—I scrape a flake of skin off with my thumbnail. I suck my bottom lip in  and drag my tongue along the tear. I taste the iron in my blood.  

“I just don’t get it,” I say. 

Caleb pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes shut. “Lena, not tonight.” 

"Oh, so we’re putting this off indefinitely?" I flick the cigarette, watching the ash scatter.  "What’s the milestone? When he’s got a nameplate on the door?" 

Caleb lets out a slow breath, gaze on the pavement. “You’re being dramatic.” 

I exhale a humorless laugh. “Dramatic? You had no patience for Dustin, but Wayne? He  gets a bed, a meal, a fucking invitation?” 

His jaw clenches. The silence fills with squeeling brakes. 

“I’m trying to help him.” 

I turn, voice taut but steady. “And what was I trying to do?” 

Silence. I watch a calico cat disappear into room 9's open window. 

“You see it, don’t you? The double standard?” I say. 

He swallows. “It’s different.” 

I shake my head. “No, it’s not.” I press my cigarette to my lips, eyes scanning the dark lot. “I  know Wayne is your father. I know your mom died and he’s ass out and you’re trying to  help. You’re a good son, Caleb. I don’t have a problem with that.” My voice softens, just a  little. “I have a problem with not being able to do that for my half-brother.” 

Caleb's eye follows a motorcycle roaring past, pipes full blast. He shifts his weight to the  other foot. Finally he says, “I don’t know,” 

I sigh, pressing my palm to my eye. “I just—” I shake my head. “I don’t want to fight. But I  feel like I can’t even breathe in there anymore.” 

The door creaks open. 

Fucking Wayne steps out. 

Scratching his stomach, a crumpled bag of THC gummies in his other hand. He nods slowly,  like he’s in on a conversation we don’t know we’re having. 

“Mmm,” he grunts—a sound that says everything and nothing. 

I watch him, then exhale. He’s got plans—to shuffle over to Liz’s, maybe try his luck. But first— 

Wayne chits at Caleb and says “You got a smoke?” 

Caleb clenches his jaw, digs into his pack. Hands one over without meeting his eyes. Wayne tucks it behind his ear. 

Then, like it’s scripted, “Gimme another one, just in case.” 

I tip my head back.  

Caleb exhales, pulls another out, flicks it toward Wayne. 

Wayne catches it. Stashes it in his other ear. 

Then, without missing a beat, “Shit, actually, gimme one more.” 

I whip around, disbelief slicing the air. “You fucking serious?” 

Wayne grins, unbothered. “Three’s a good number.” 

Caleb closes his eyes for a beat, then hands over a third. 

Wayne tucks it into his shirt pocket, pats it like a trophy.

“Aight,” he says, shifting his weight. He points his chin toward Liz’s unit. “I’m out your hair.  Just stoppin’ by for a sec.” 

He ambles across the lot, slow, deliberate, the bag of gummies swinging like a pendulum. I watch him go. Flick ash off the railing. “Jesus Christ,” I say. 

Then— 

A sound. 

“Hemha, hemha.” 

We turn. 

A man lurches up the lot. Hunched shoulders. Ratty coat. 

Slobber in his beard. Eyes moving slow, faded, vacant. 

He stops at the bottom of the stairs. Head jerking between us. 

“Kayuyafun?” 

Caleb blinks. “What?” 

“Ka-yu-ya-fun?” 

I exhale, rolling my eyes. “What?” 

He points at my phone. A stuttered plea: “Could I use your phone?” 

His body sways in a wind only he's feeling. 

I know him. Every week from Mercy Street. Same hustle. Same tired routine. After the phone, he’d ask for aluminum cans. Then food. Then money. The same dance. 

The same deadbeat steps.

“You picked a bad time, man,” Caleb says, shaking his head. “I can’t help you tonight.” I cross my arms. “Fuck off.” 

His glazed eyes drift to me. His mouth opens—a silent plea. 

He hesitates. 

Then he backs off. 

Shuffles toward the street, legs heavy, knees bowed by weight. 

Caleb exhales. 

I flick ash off the railing again, eyes fixed on his retreating form. 

“You never tell them to fuck off,” I accuse. 

Caleb shrugs. “They’re people.” 

“Yeah? So am I.” 

My words hang, unanswered. 

Wayne reappears—halfway across the lot, slowing down. 

“Yo—” he begins, pointing at Liz’s unit. 

"I'm probably gonna stay her tonight.” He's got a shitty grin on his face, tight lips. I stare, unresponsive. 

Wayne smacks his lips. Shakes his head. 

Then, as if the air still needs more, “Y’all got another smoke?” 

I close my eyes. 

Caleb tosses the pack at him. 

Wayne catches it, grins wide. “Knew you’d come through.”

He lights up. Takes a deep, steady pull. 

Mercy Street vibrates the whole place. 

The marinara red gutter sags on building C. A tenant on the second balcony puffs a  cigarette. 

Neon wavers in puddles. 

Wayne exhales slow. 

“Man,” he mutters, head shaking. 

“Been a long day.” 

I watch him disappear inside Liz’s, the door swinging shut, cutting us off. Silence settles. 

Then, after a beat— 

“You ever notice he always asks for three cigarettes?” 

I squint at Caleb. “What?” 

“Three. Not one, not two. Always three.” He gestures toward Liz’s door. “Takes one for now,  one for later, and one… what? For the fucking road?” 

I snort. “Maybe he’s got a deal with a cigarette fairy. One for him, one for her, and one in  case the Lord comes calling.” 

Caleb cracks a smile. “Or he’s trying to start his own black market. Get enough people to  donate three at a time, and suddenly he’s the goddamn Marlboro King.” 

I shake my head, a reluctant grin tugging at my mouth. “We’re enabling a fucking crime  syndicate.” 

Caleb shrugs. “Shit, if it keeps him out of the apartment…” 

I sigh, looking over at him. The motel breathes around us, flickering neon reflecting in the 

puddles, the night settling in. 

“I do love you, you know.” 

Caleb looks at me for a long moment, then exhales, his smile small but real. “Yeah. I love you too.” 

Caleb reaches out and nudges the Burmese on the van. The cat pushes his head into  Caleb's cantaloupe sized fist. He tells it "Keep an eye on the lot, homie." and opens the  door.