Carlos says he’s going out for the army by the end of the summer. He buys a calendar from the thrift store to track his progress, one with puppies on the front. It’s from six years back so he has to cross out all the dates and write in the right ones. He rips out June, July, and August and tacks them to the corkboard in the back. Every time Diane takes them down so we can see the work schedule he puts them back up.
June is golden retrievers. There’s three in a woven basket, a fourth one lying on fake grass. I sit on the toilet with the lid down and watch Carlos attempt a push-up on his fists. He keeps eating concrete. After about ten minutes he rolls onto his back and puffs, legs and arms spread out like a giant X. I get off the toilet and light a cigarette over him, dropping the match between his legs.
“Maybe you’re not army material,” I say.
“I can die, can’t I?” he says.
