“You can’t just walk around using your hand as a testicle vice at will, S!”
J appeared drunk as she bobbed and wove in front of her friend’s face, sweat running down her forehead and into her eyes as she chucked another shovel-head of earth out and over her right shoulder.
“Are you even listening to me, S?”
S wasn’t listening; she was instead, absorbing the things that were coming out of J’s mouth.
“Fine, at least dig, then…it’s hot out here; the buzzards are coming.”
J pointed a pterodactyl-like finger past S’ head, aimed high on the horizon, whereupon a kettle of the grotesque, awkward carrion birds slowly descended through a clear, hot sky towards the spot where the girls dug. With her other hand, she handed S the shovel she’d been digging with and went to the trunk to get another one, so as to speed this undertaking along.
Dicky (Richard) Hatfield demonstrated perfectly: the epitome of “sayin’ something – doin’ nothing”.
With beady eyes and reptilian features, including obnoxiously yellowed-blonde hair that was reminiscent of a Bearded Dragon’s spiky scaled mane. His lower jaw was underbitten badly, and he had one, bright fluorescent blonde streak for an eyebrow that remained burrowed deeply in the center of his perpetually sunburned forehead. His voice was nasally and he always sounded to J as if he was begging not to be smashed in the face, no matter what he was actually saying. He was an idiot and a judgmental ass; a tattletale and a poor sport; a man nobody trusted or liked – only tolerated – because of who he was little brother to.
Dicky’s infuriating machismo and self-righteous attitude had found him the fat end of more than one Louisville in his time alive so far. Dicky Hatfield also happened to be what the guys (and J) from the shooting range referred to as a stereo-typical ‘BOB’, the acronym used among them in short for ‘Brother of Boss’. The brother that represented the son-of-a-bitch’s Lifetime Get out of Jail Free Card was the none other than the local face of the Law: Sheriff Mac Hatfield , a fair enough man…
J: Don’t act like you don’t recognize the name Hatfield, S!
S: Oh Ye! I do, I do! I…..do…..
J: Yes, Einstein! Now, it’s coming back to you isn’t it?…you fuckhead, shit!
Red the Undead turned slowly around to face the girls without the industrial strength flood lights from inside the shop blazing in his eyes, pulling a dirty rag saturated in grease and gear oil from his back pocket and wiping his brow before speaking in his drawling, matter-of-factly tone – one that bore so much bass that his final word of a sentence resonated between one’s eardrums for moments after he finished speaking; he said,
“Well, there’s only one thang we can do with this shiny little mo-chine now ain’t there?”
J: Red, we can’t take it back – don’t make us take it back, they’ll put us both away for eons and you know it!…
Red cut her off and held up his huge hand to silence her anxious plea, he whistled a sharp, shrill chirp loudly and his huge Malamute appeared behind him;
“We gotta get this Mini to the Chop Shop before sunrise, Ladies…” Red smacked a hand against his thigh and the dog snapped to attention when he addressed it, “Let’s go Bullet, get in the tow truck.”
She has a tangible, imaginary friend
who comes to shine when the light grows dim,
who calls off the demons that crawl under the skin,
who forces her upright when her knees keep giving in.
An unimagined force that flows between the minds
inside of two hard-heads,
a whisper that breathes the hope of life back into a dream, long dead,
a tickling in the inner-ear, recalling words
that were heard and said,
She is a tangible, imaginary friend
who hears a clone of her own crying across the sea,
who speaks to the spirits and commands them to be,
who remembers each lifetime and treasures such memories.
not a single loose string hanging from the thickened vine
of life-line towed between the two,
a shadow to the naked eye, a real-life confidant, tried and true,
a beckoning that guides the sight of the eyes
a coconut flavored truth.
The lyrics to this song tell one of my very own stories –
the one to my Boo.
Every time I hear this song, I think, “Damn, this is SOOO my song to my daughter…”
Here’s to you, Boo – – – wherever you may be tonight. <B