Gandhi stood by the sink, arms braced on the countertop. His body heaved slightly, rhythmically, somewhat out of breath from washing a basin caked with blackened chicken skin from the night before. Melissa was supposed to wash them last night. He sighed. It was nothing knew. She simply doesn’t wash dishes. Not that he minded the work. Along with the chicken grease, his effort at the sink allowed most of his worries to wash down the drain along with the soap bubbles.

Outside the window and across the gravel lot, David knelt by the front right tire checking the air pressure of his Galactic double-wide. Gandhi wondered if, before leaving, David would return the screw driver he borrowed to fasten that ridiculous mechanical rooster to the top of his camper. Each morning at exactly 9:12 the rooster crowed, somewhat authentically, and then played a cavalry song. Twice Ghandi spotted David showing off the rooster to other men. Both times he saluted the American flag with a sternness that might almost pass for patriotism if the flag wasn’t tacked to the side of the trailer, frayed and brown—never mind the can of Milwaukee’s Best clenched in his other hand.
“Idiot,” Gandhi muttered to his wife.
Gandhi went outside and joined his wife at the table. She spent most of her mornings out here writing poetry about the campground: her bingo winnings, the square dances, that mechanical rooster. She liked the slowness of the Poconos.
Whenever a nearby camper listened to the radio anytime after seven at night, Gandhi would ask, “You call this quiet?” He would motion upward as if all around him fireworks were exploding.
Melissa thought about this and waved him off.
“The people are nice,” she liked to say. But she knew he disagreed. Aside from the owner of the camp, who Gandhi attempted to talk to about the profits of running his particular business, Gandhi had failed to make friends with one person all Summer. The neighbors had greeted the couple on their arrival, but the conversation turned awkward so quickly that it ended with a common courtesy offering to “let us know if you need anything.” In fact, the only activity he enjoyed, aside from cleaning the entire trailer and campground each morning was their daily walk around the lake.
A breeze lifted smoke and the smell of breakfast sausages from a few sites over. He inhaled deeply. The smell was sweet and enjoyable. He went about his morning ritual of sweeping off the front porch. Most of the litter accumulated at the edges, where leaves and tree debris somehow found their way inside the screened in porch. Even without much activity, the litter accumulated. The rug needed to be vacuumed, and the countertops washed.
Later that day, while Gandhi and Melissa ate ham sandwiches, the neighbors, driving past, waved good bye, and for the last time Gandhi heard the mechanical rooster crowing its call. He couldn’t help but smile.