This old man — he played one, he played knick-knack on my thumb.
This old man, my old man, my man, is a long haul trucker. Here last week, gone this week. Back the week after.
Knick-knack, paddy-whack give a dog a bone.
I’m singing to the big old hound lying on the kitchen lino. Useless thing. All saggy skin and knobbly joints anymore. Snufflin’ in his sleep after rabbits he’s never caught. My old man sings that Elvis song to him. Says it’s because Booger is my dog, ain’t no friend of his. Which is why Booger sleeps on his side of the bed when he’s home? I don’t think so. Continue reading
Once upon a time there was a little boy who had both a dog and a monster.
This boy spent his summer days with the dog traveling out with him in the morning and returning each afternoon in the hottest part of the day to cool in the shade of the back porch with the glass of lemonade provided by the woman known to the adults as The Girl and to the boy as Maya. Maya was unique among the Girls of the neighborhood in that she agreed with her boy on two subjects. One, that the grey dog, called Roy, was the best dog in the neighborhood and deserved his spot at the north end of the boy’s bed every night. Two, that the monster that took its days in the cool dirt under the back porch stairs and its nights with the dust and stray dog bones under the south end of the boy’s bed was just the right sort of monster for a 10 year-old boy to have. Of course, this also meant that Maya believed in the monster. She was the only adult in Grifter’s Bend who did not subscribe to the views of Dr. September, the child psychologist. She knew that the monsters were as real as the dogs, and the sister’s cats, and the hamsters in dirty aquariums that also existed in the boys’ worlds. Our boy, whose name is Duffy Jackson, is particularly lucky to have Maya in his house from 9 to 6 Monday through Saturday excepting Wednesday afternoons, when she goes to see her own mama and get ready for church.
Not quite a day late, but pretty much a dollar — or a piece of software and a margin change — short.
So without further ado — or proper inking — I give you the first installment of The Big G.
Tomas looked down from the balcony.
This house, the house he’d grown up in, was old, faded. The cool blues and sweet melons of his childhood forgotten and replaced with dry grays and dingy mustards. It was as if his mother had taken all of the color with her when she left. Papa had told them that she died. Suddenly one night when Tomas was 12 and Hugo had just turned 4.
Tomas had believed Papa and Hugo had not. And that is all you need to know about the two Claudio brothers.
When I left, it was winter.
I had arrived on a clear cold August night. Stopping on the butte overlooking the canyon, I wondered if there was any reason not to simply continue riding north.
To be continued…
First line courtesy of The Oracle. But yours won’t be the same.