If I am repaired, can we meet again for the first time, in all of the places I have feared to go, and then, again, in all of the places I will have forgotten, if I am repaired?



SC



_____________________________






Thursday, November 17, 2016

Pete's Little Saga, Part IV


There’s a trailer between James’s place and mine, a 70's model Fleetwood, single-wide, rental, proof positive there's no Government enforced regulations in these parts as to what is and what is not inhabitable. 
          
    The Trailer's current and primary tenant is a tattooed and heavily pierced young man, named James as well. He's come over a couple of times, talks incessantly, and always as if he were about to cry. Up-the-road James, says he isn't quite right, but has only offered as proof, Trailer James's lack of Drivers Licence and middle school education. With Trailer Jamesfrom what I’ve gatheredlive a young woman, an undetermined amount of children (hers, I assume), a mother (also hers), who is missing a leg, and two dogs, Amy and Harley.

     Amy is a vicious little sausage of a dog. Not a wiener kind of sausage. Amy’s more along the lines of a Little Smoky, something you’d find stuffed and rigid in the pillowed recesses of some antique store—the classic lap dog.  

    Harley is a sausage as well, though much larger than Amy, a sort of black and tan Basset with stubby legs, mainsails for ears and a belly that is in constant need of rubbing.

      Trailer James and I seem to be caught in a similar Middle-School limbo. We never entirely grew up. He, I assume, for lack of education, and me, for lack of want. I've always been sort of a seventh-grader, doing things the way I thought grown-ups might do them—pretending. Trailer James might not be pretending so much.
     
     Never is my immaturity more evident than when it comes to dogs. Bring a dog into the room and you can pretty much count me out of the adult conversation. I love them with the complete abandon of a boy. I've never actually seen Trailer James get down in the grass and roll with Amy and Harley, like I do with my boy, Bo, but I wouldn't put it past him. Trailer James loves dogs, plain and simple.             


     Perhaps Pete sensed this love in passing. Perhaps his previous home had a similar abandoned quality to the Trailer. Perhaps the children, buzzing around the threadbare yard, were equally familiar. Perhaps Harley had invited him to come and sit on the porch. God knows it wasn’t Amy, viscous as she is. Whatever the case, the Trailer was where Pete arrived next on his journey.




      

Pete's Little Saga, Part III


There’s a trailer between James’s place and mine, a 70's model Fleetwood, single-wide rental that is proof of there being no Government enforced regulations in these parts, as to what is and is not inhabitable. 
          
    The Trailer's current and primary tenant is a tattooed and heavily pierced young man, named James as well. He's come over a couple of times, talks incessantly, and always as if he were about to cry. Up-the-road James, says he isn't quite right, but has only offered as proof, Trailer James's lack of Drivers Licence and middle school education. With Trailer Jamesfrom what I’ve gatheredlive a young woman, an undetermined amount of children (hers, I assume), a mother (also hers), who is missing a leg, and two dogs, Amy and Harley.

     Amy is a vicious little sausage of a dog. Not a wiener kind of sausage. Amy’s more along the lines of a Little Smoky, something you’d find stuffed and rigid in the pillowed recesses of some antique store—the classic lap dog.  

    Harley is a sausage as well, though much larger than Amy, a sort of black and tan Basset with stubby legs, mainsails for ears and a belly that is in constant need of rubbing.

      Trailer James and I seem to be caught in a similar Middle-School limbo. We never entirely grew up. He, I assume, for lack of education, and me, for lack of want. I've always been sort of a seventh-grader, doing things the way I thought grown-ups might do them—pretending. Trailer James might not be pretending so much.
     Never is my immaturity more evident than when it comes to dogs. Bring a dog into the room and you can pretty much count me out of the adult conversation. I love them with the complete abandon of a boy. I've never actually seen Trailer James get down in the grass and roll with Amy and Harley, like I do with my boy, Bo, but I wouldn't put it past him. Trailer James loves dogs, plain and simple.             


     Perhaps Pete sensed this love in passing. Perhaps his previous home had a similar abandoned quality to the Trailer. Perhaps the children, buzzing around the threadbare yard, were equally familiar. Perhaps Harley had invited him to come and sit on the porch. God knows it wasn’t Amy, viscous as she is. Whatever the case, the Trailer was where Pete arrived next on his journey.




      

Sunday, November 13, 2016

Pete's Little Saga II


Pete showed up at James’s first.
          
     James lives about a quarter mile up the road. The way he tells it, he was letting Pete camp out on his front porch until he found who Pete belonged to, but then Pete got a hold of one of his favorite camouflage clogs, and that brought an end to the charity. 

     Rather than call the Pound, James ran Pete off.  In the direction of my house. 




     
   



Wednesday, November 9, 2016

Pete's Little Saga, Part I


When they finished their business, Harley and Bobo trotted out across the cropped and amber hayfield, due west, the sun rising behind them.
       
     Pete and I watched. It was cold and wet. Even still, Pete whimpered and tugged at his lead, desperate to follow the big dogs.
       
     ‘Not a chance, buddy,’ I told him. ‘You’re a house dog now.’
       
     Pete’s a pup. A stray pup. A stray pup with an eleven-inch pin and four loops of wire holding his left femur together. Spiral fracture. Hit by a car. We assume.
       
     I paid for the fix. All in all about twelve hundred dollars. Twelve hundred dollars I don’t have.
       
     Why?

     Pete asked me to.  







Saturday, July 30, 2016

Freewrite for Lack of Chops


The car is white. A four door. Nissan maybe. An older model. Dealer tags.
          The passenger, in his mid twenties has his arm cocked out the opened window. No air. He’s shirtless and tan, spotted with dark tattoos.
          The driver gets out. He comes round to the front of the car. He’s wearing shorts and a white A shirt.
           ‘You know the man who owns that place,’ he says, pointing to the white house across the field of tobacco.
          The house is a rental, owned by the same man, the same family, who owns the old house I’m working on. It had burned a while back. Not badly. Not that you could tell from the outside. An electrical fire in the attic. Still, it wasn’t inhabitable yet, and the owner wasn’t sure he wanted to fool with renting it out any more.
          ‘Same fella who owns this old place,’ I say.
          ‘You reckon he’d want to rent it out?’ the driver asks. He's coming my way.
          ‘Don’t know,’ I tell him.
         The passenger’s eyes roll over my tools, the old house. I hate this shit. Not knowing. Having to assume that people are thieves, when I’d prefer to think the best of them.       
          The driver is standing in front of me. If he isn’t high, he needs a fix. His eyes won’t be still. They quiver.
          ‘I’ve got five grandbabies,’ he says, ‘that’d just love that big yard.’
          ‘It burned inside,’ I tell him. 'Needs work.'
          'I'm a carpenter', he says. ‘Like you.’
          I look over the driver's shoulder at the passenger, smoking now, his skin slick with sweat.
          I hate this shit.






           

Tuesday, July 19, 2016

Roadside


He leaves the stand, holding the sweet corn in his arms, eight, ten ears, as if he were already there, returned to that most precious feast of childhood.


   

Tuesday, July 5, 2016



So. This song comes on the radio...




Yeah.
And, I'm thinking, like you're probably thinking ... Slow Dance
And the partner that pops into my head at this moment of emotional raptitude?
Bobo.
Yeah. My dog.

Thus is the depth of my love.




p.s. no, raptitude is not a word.