Dump Truck, Baby Brother by Patrick Strickland

After dark, our father hides behind a lamppost, waiting. The streetlights stammer. Our father burns bright in the flicker, disappears, and returns, hunched and taking slugs off his flask. A ratty Toyota two-door blasts past, then slams along a sorry-looking sedan. Our father, in a tank top and cut-off shorts, shifts his weight in place, and I notice how thin his arms are. He hasn’t had a real meal in weeks. 

“What’s he waiting for?” my baby brother Dump Truck asks. Nicknamed for large size and large smell, a lot like a construction site, he’s shuffling his shoes on our stained, dusty bedroom floor, face pressed flat to the window. I have to stand on tiptoes to see. 

“It can’t be any car,” I tell him. “It’s got to be some car.” 

Our father, chugging a Bud Ice, flicking ash on the living room floor, explained things already. Our mother, a real big bastard, took off before he could find a job, he said. Our father couldn’t give less a shit about our mother, being good for nothing, but our food’s running low—a couple cans of beans, tuna in plastic packets, a bucket of rice—and the state won’t send the check for our father’s split-up hip and corroded knees for weeks. We need quick cash, he said, rubbing his kneecap. 

I remind Dump Truck of this, not telling him what my heart knows: that our father is so lost and lonesome without our mother he hopes a car will crush him dead. Dump Truck pokes a finger up his nose, flicks the chunk, and wipes his hand on his pantleg. “But why’s it gotta be a special car?” 

“This car,” I say, and I picture our mother at a bar, on a beach, in front of a fireplace in a cabin, “it’s got to be a car worth some cash.” 

Dump Truck says “oh” and groans. His mouth’s slack, a gash, and he wants to know if a Ferrari might be the correct car. I nod and Dump Truck says he understands now, but he’s stupid and lost yet. 

“Dump,” I say, “it’s for insurance money.” 

“Don’t call me that.” He hates his nickname, and his face’s fire-red. 

“You know what insurance is?” 

“Yes.” 

“You do?” 

Dump Truck’s mouth doesn’t move for a moment, then finally, “No.” 

An hour passes, then two. Dump Truck flattens his face to the window again, our father staggering bad drunk and stupid across the lawn. Our father shoulders through the screen door. “Not much luck, boys,” he shouts. “We won’t be gettin’ rich tonight.” 

We sit quiet and wait, then hear M*A*S*H on the TV, then our father’s laughter, and know from the no noise he’s fast asleep on the sofa. 

Dump Truck’s too tired to stand more. He bangs around our room toward his bed, swatting shadows, and stubs his toe twice or three times. Our light bulb’s dead, and our father says we have to wait until he gets his check to replace it. Dump Truck crawls under all the covers, yanks them up to his chin. We fall sound asleep for some time. 

*

I dream of our mother making a big journey. She found her true love last month, in a cowboy hat, at the American Legion where she works the bar. He was tipping forty percent and had flares in his eyes. She nodded at our father and said he stiffed bartenders. She said he had dead eyes, that she couldn’t spend another hour in the house. My dreams have the mailman handing us postcards from far, San Antonio and New Mexico and Los Angeles. She writes that she will send scratch for us to join her on the road with our new father. 

Our real father’s taking it alright. He says he’s dragging tail all over our town, writing his life on resumes that might land him work. But around sundown he bodies through the screen door smelling like beer and cigarettes. Says he wishes we were old enough to work. 

*

We wake in our beds to the sound of the kitchen sink, then cabinets smashing open. Dump Truck rubs his eyes and thumps out of the room, shouting.

“Come quick,” he says, our father is bleeding and dead on the ground. 

He’s right, or almost. There’s blood on the old linoleum, our father not having replaced it when our mother asked, and our father’s face-down and not moving. 

“Wake him,” Dump Truck cries, and I kick our father not hard in the arc of his foot. When he doesn’t move, Dump Truck’s begging again, “Wake him up.” 

I don’t tell Dump Truck I hope it’s true, that our father’s dead. I think of a new family, a nice couple from across the highway who can’t have kids of their own, and food, and a dog. I put two fingers to our father’s neck, not knowing how to know if someone’s dead. 

Our father jerks up to his feet, jackknifed forward and laughing. 

“Got y’all,” he’s saying, and then he’s plucking pillows from the couch, firing them over his shoulder searching for his flask. 

“Did we get rich?” Dump Truck’s asking. 

Our father’s swaying and saying fuck and hell and where’s his flask, when I point to it right there in his hand. He’s slamming it back and hand-toweling blood from his cheeks. 

Dump Truck’s wanting to know how much cash we have now. 

“Not much luck tonight, boys,” our father’s saying. 

Dump Truck says he can work, why not? Our father’s shaking his head no, then he’s saying wait, wait, shaking his head yes. Now, he’s gripping Dump Truck’s plump elbow and guiding down to the curb, saying a kid like him might turn a buck yet. I’m pressing my face flat to the window, waiting. 

Based in Greece, Patrick Strickland is a writer and journalist from Texas. His short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming at Epiphany, Porter House Review, and Salvation South, among others. He’s the author of three nonfiction books and the forthcoming story collection A History of Heartache (Melville House, April 2026). 

20 February 2026