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Talk is cheap, he thought. I need to write something.
He got out his laptop and set to work. I’m gonna write something today, he thought.
A few email receipts later, nothing was done but his Christmas shopping. He looked at the decorative typewriter and made a decision.
“Shut down.”
I have been “kept” for most of my adult life. I am pampered. I don’t have to work. I am bathed while I bask in the sun. I weigh a lot, but no one seems to care. In fact, they seem to like it. I’m a ’57 Chevy Bel Air.
Possibly the most insightful thing the writer said… he said to his kid brother: “We are cooking onions. And if you think about it… the only ingredients we added were heat and time.” The twelve year old brother’s foot was broken. His precocious assent was validated by the sweet Vidalia.
They plunked along the corduroy road, quarts of moonshine threatening suicide from the back seats. The Model T had lost its windshield to the local speak, and dust painted the travelers’ sweating bodies.
The man took a swig of hooch and looked at his companion: a woman of easy virtue.
I played in the woods. I kept my dreams there in a box.
It contained an old copy of Bulfinch’s Mythology, and a plan for running away at 12 years old. It was just for play.
Mom found it and I’m not allowed to play in the woods any more.
The city loomed like so many concrete prison guards watching his routine. “No slip ups this time,” they said.
He pulled his hat down and his trench coat around him. Crossing the wet grit of illuminated pavement, he saw his mark.
He eased a greasy revolver out of his pocket…
The soldiers in the trench talked of home.
“Your family owns a ranch?”
“Sure,” he answered, cleaning his rifle.
“Like goats and shit? Sheep?”
“No… Land, trucks, guns, hunting. We hunt the wildlife.”
“Oh.”
“It’s a lot like here, really.”
“Except here we’re hunting people, not animals.”
“Hearts and minds.”
There was a brief bit of communication. Then came the elation of knowing what lay in store.
She asked him if she could drive 300 miles just to meet him.
She went home while he was at work.
He texted her: “You left your scent on my pillow, didn’t you?”
“They’re dirty people, the Irish. Sharing food with bugs underground. How do you make money in a place like this, I don’t know.”
“What can I do? This is where I am.”
“Move to Flaridah,” he said.
The Irish there weren’t much better, but there were certainly less of them.
Best friends… hadn’t spoken in years.
The phone’s ring echoed his heart’s pounding.
“Hey man.”
“Hey.”
“Glad you called… I miss you. I miss home.”
—-
He cried because his friend still loved him.
Ten days later, he cried because a drunk driver hit that best friend.
—-
I’m glad I called.
