Rabbit's Crap Poetry: 2016

Friday, October 28, 2016

The Nature of Hope

A clockwork butterfly
With hodgepodge parts,
Metal and tissue paper wings
And the dream of flight
Spreads its wings and waits for a breeze.

Without the strength
For a textbook takeoff,
It flutters and flaps
With parts that don't quite fit
Like they should.

Striving for the freedom
Of a life in the clouds,
It strains skyward
Toward the blue and white
Toward the dream of something more.

A sudden breeze blows through
Tattered and heavy wings
Giving birth to hope
And its heart soars
As feet lift from the ground slightly.

The gust transforms in an instant,
To something more terrifying
Something surreal and sudden
Something too abrupt for tissue paper wings
Rent so quickly from their metal supports

The wind is gone,
A brief taste of heaven
Tore the newly formed wings
Completely from the body
Red and black, wasted, lost to the winds of hope

Eyes skyward, it wonders
How it could have better prepared
For such an ill-fated plan.
The maker had ensured it had the right parts
But it could not have anticipated the nature of the wind.

Avaritia

I want the dirty, filthy things. I want rug-burned knees and a bruised backside.
I want the pretty, girly things. I want poetry and sunsets.

I want someone to watch over me.

I want someone to make me cry. I want someone worth crying to, about and for.

I want the silly, crazy things. I want Ihop at 3am and people watching.
I want the sappy, lovey things. I want kisses and stolen glances.

I want someone to pick me up when I fall.

I want someone who will let me fall. I want someone who can support me without restricting me.

I want the breathless, painful things. I want a hand around my throat and a racing pulse.
I want the thrilling, tender things. I want a soft caress and an endless kiss.

I want someone who knows the difference.

I want someone who can teach me. I want someone who can help find the answers for both of us.

Acedia

Luxuriate in ignoring the daylight seeping through the shades,
mingling with the dust in the air to create sunbeams.

Revel in the warmth of the down comforter cradling you in comfort unsurpassed,
keeping you safe in your little cave.

Savor the sweet sounds of the waking world outside and know
they are not for you, they do not matter.

Cherish the fact that you have no concrete plans for the day,
that you are unbidden by anyone to do a single thing.

Enjoy the feel of your flesh sliding slowly against itself,
how soft, how delicious and sensual you can truly be.

Love the knowledge that others are working hard,
living the rough life and you can lie here in your pillowed bliss, safe and sound.

Luxuria

The dull pain of a welt or bruise leftover from a particularly delicious encounter
The sting of the impact of a hand or tool of torture leaving weals against tender flesh
Red crisscrossing stripes left as a reminder
Porcelain flesh interrupted by finite scratches

The burn of raw skin from the repeated motions against rough fabric
The ache of sore muscles used in singularly-minded motions
Black fabric binding ankles and wrists
Satin sliding slowly along curves on a body

The writhing pleasure of begging for a release
The desperation of needing to serve, to please
Pursed lips being licked, ready... willing
Muscles twitching, tense... eager

The sharp gasp of pained pleasure
The shock of a release wrought from a wanton body
Lips parted, trembling... speechless
Body quivering, conquered ... breathless

Midwinter

Grey over grey, a seamless patchwork of monotony plays out before us with the merciless robbery of all interest. White melting into brown, grey asphalt; the only break from downtrodden snow and general discontent of nature. Fleeting glance of sunlight blocked out by clouds that refuse to merely linger, but insist on dominating the skys above, relentless in their silent taunting. Hope of spring lost to the etch-a-sketch grey of the world. Sky melts into horizon, melts into foreground and that beneath your feet. Odd...birds flying, outlined in the color of the dirtied snow the cars run over and slush up onto your shoes. It seems as if this grey, this in-between world would consume even the most arduous of people. Still, there are whistles of cheer and smiles now and again, when the wind's demanding howl isn't too icy to keep them inside. Scarves blown away in the zephyrs, lost forever to the North wind, for all his restlessness. Sweet cocktail of apathy mingled with stress and a drop of ice

Reality Carnival

White cotton hugs the curves, which stretch the multicolored polka dots into ovals. Artificial zephyrs tug at the sheets, swaying them like maroon sails. Lit from the inside, they wave and flutter lazily as the breeze washes over my skin, still soft from the shower.

The vast expanse of this once-tiny bed impresses its solitary mark on me and I sigh with a melancholy smile curling lips that once smiled for others. Lips that kissed and touched, begged to be broken and stitched back together; lips that will do the same again someday.

Cherry blond wood nearly a century old creaks with the shifting weight of its burden, as the body atop shifts and silently wishes for another. Another touch, the sweet stinging caress... the dull itch of the marks left behind.

With the right backlighting, anything seems possible. Colored film against the lens through which the world is seen changes so much. Red, blue, yellow. No rose-colored films for me. I'd rather see the possibilities of reality, not what I hope reality was.

Strings

There are always complications in life, I know there is no exception to that rule. I moved here to become a better person; to become the person that I know I can and should be. To be the one that I knew I couldn't be when I was with him.

I came here, to the place that I knew I could get a good start at becoming me again. Where I am accepted and loved without question, despite my proclivities and shortcomings. Despite the way I seem to need to make things complicated.

So here, with my friends and extended family, I've made a good home, a good start for myself. I've started to figure things out for myself, to realize what it is that I need and want. What it is that I don't need or want.

These close relationships are excellent... wonderful. I could not ask for better people in my life. Each of them has a string tied to my soul, helping me go this way or that way. Helping me divine the right path to take.

Sometimes, the strings pull taut in opposite directions.

Sometimes, they fray and break.

Sometimes, the few that fit around the column of my neck feel a little... tight.

For so long I was content with the mundane, with the ordinary. I knew I wanted more, I thought I might deserve more and now that the opportunity has presented itself, I find the urge overwhelming.

I want to dance and sing and scream. I want to live every waking moment to the fullest, be it enjoying the silent company of the man with the wild blue eyes or sitting at home, thinking of the things that I can do now that I'm finally becoming my own person.

Mostly, I wonder how it ever was that I became so content to be malcontent. I wonder how it was possible for me to shine so dully that I shock my Northern friends with my sudden zest and spark. How did I exist in such a state for years without absolutely losing my mind?

The answer, of course, is the slow decline. It was a slippery slope of muddy molasses and I didn't even notice I was sliding. I didn't notice that I was dimming. Didn't notice my drive was gone, that everything that made me ... me was going, fading, becoming glossed over with a layer of thick grime that almost completely covered my reflection.

A swift shake of the mirror was all it took to remove most of the grit, and now as I start to hone and polish the mirror, I begin to see the real shape of me. Student, employee, friend. Someone who is driven, not who is along for the ride. Someone who does things to make her life better instead of wondering what could have been and what will be.

I am this new person and it's thanks to that jolt of realization. The sudden impact of truth most often hurts but is sometimes so bittersweet that it forces the injured to stumble backward on coltish legs of logic.

Sometimes you have to step back away from the mirror to see the dirt it's accumulated and the figures in the background that you've been blocking with your own reflection.

The scent from the bottle in my purse
Is too sweet.
Is manufactured.
Is false.

I want the smell of luxurious release
And the feel of sweaty flesh
Struggling against mine to reach the end,
Desperate for release

For the blissful other side
For the room spinning without moving
For the the feral whimper of the pinnacle

The feel of a soft fingertip along my skin
Is too gentle.
Is a whisper.
Is lacking.

I need the wanton, animal thrust
And the primal glow in the eyes
Of the beast in the darkness near me,
Ready for the taste of my flesh

For the surprised gasp torn from my lips
For the desperate whimper unbidden by my will
For the pleading moan half-bitten away

Thursday, October 27, 2016

Thrust

Fat and chic, our nation quarrels with itself, discontent with the killing of a fluffy forest creature, the underdog or a rock star or the children who killed their father.

Like pigs to the slaughter, we devour the faux facts, pretending to care, pretending to be sated with the cirque du les miserables, pretending to be outraged about something or another while we lustfully devour every bit of it, gossip about it at work, protest with brightly coloured signs. The only thing that brings colour to our lives... We follow, single-file down the chutes the media constructs for us, boasting 32 ways to make him want you, 10 ways to loose that extra 20 pounds and the top 100 most attractive moviestars of our time, perhaps saddest of all is that we, these pigs, wish to do all these things. To be sexual, to be in shape, to be perfect, to own, to buy, to be needed, to have everything anyone has ever wanted--discontent to be merely who we are, to be happy with what we have, to love ourselves and those who surround us, despite their social standing.

Mindless sheep that we are, capitalism is our God, no buddha, no vishnu, no allah. Glimmering "Sale!" tags and sparkling salesman and models who are far too thin to wear anything save napkins whirl and mezmerize us, forcing out our wallets with greedy, fat fingers digging for that which our God demands. Offerings of circular metal, rectangular plastic and paper are laid out, libations for an all-consuming God who will make us thinner, with whiter teeth, a smaller ass and gigantic tits.Yes, this is what we're told we want, what we're told we need.. and then are sent messages just the opposite. "It's ok to be yourself." If you're fat with acne and a nervous tic, it's not ok. It's ok if you're a method actor, not an actress. It's ok if you're elderly, not if you're under the age of 70. It's ok if you're a man, not if you're a woman. It's ok if you don't mind shopping in stores that charge twice as much for a pair of jeans than any other store. It's ok if you don't mind children, men and women staring and whispering to their friends that they wouldn't be caught dead in that outfit, body or hairdo.

"Discontent!" squeal the few with but one extra brain cell that hasn't been botoxed, burboned or Pall Malled to death, twitching like an epilleptic. Through the contented mastication of the pigs at their troughs, the singular complaint is buried in name brands for low prices and protests about killing cows for their precious hides.

Designer apparel worth ten times its cost of construction to two words, a symbol or initials stitched on by a foreigner -whom we know only in the abstract, thanks to the 10 o'clock news- whose hands stiffen with each stitch and who goes home to feed a family of six on what we could earn letting out children seell lemondate on the corner of our content suburbanite communitites for only an hour.

Ah but the lord promised "The meek shall inherit the earth." How could they hope to? Cutthroat politics, advertising, salesmanship... Go for the kill, hit their pocketbook. There is no place for a kind hearted creature here, ever pig for himself. Gore the neighbor with those ivory tusks of distrust, of adultery, coveting. Sin, Sin, Sin... welcome to hell, welcome to heaven. Welcome to the world as it exists today. Away from any original plan, coursing toward downfall, thrusting lewdly toward the ultimate destruction. Hedonistic eyes glow, ready for the next barrel of bullshit to be shoveled into the trough to be devoured like the rest, with unquestioning hunger. Lust for the extordinary... for the grotesque, for the bizzarre. Welcome to the carnival.

The meek shall inherit nothing.

Run

The romanticized version of snow on the hills, freshly fallen and glistening had been ruined at best, a month ago. Slush and salt had taken over now, being tossed up onto windshields and the flashy underfinish of the cars. Grey mornings gave way to barely noticeable warmth.

It was lunchtime and I felt compelled to run for my life. The acceleration fueled my escapism as I tried for the 15 mile mark. The midwinter chill was unshakeable at 25 degrees but, as if in clear defiance, I slid back the moonroof and bolstered myself against the intruding air. It was as though I cared not for the wind-chilled arms I knew I was inviting. Oh, surely I would later, but now was my escape, my freedom.

The wind played with the ever-present menagerie of papers strewn across the back seat. The drive to the highway wasn't nearly enough, but it was a quick fix; something that no one could deny me. A short break from being surrounded by books, at school and at work. Sun in my eyes, asphalt dashing under the tires... Once more it was confirmed that my rebellion was correct and good, with that most perfect song on the radio making it clear that this sojourn was saving me from all that was evil in the world. The 20 miles came and went too fast, but at 80 miles an hour, most everything does. Yet, it seemed the world was in perfect agreement. Being one with this primal urge had set a weight on the balance, and at least for a few fleeting moments, restored all the wrongs in my universe.

To form a more perfect moment would be impossible. A soul that called night and day to be set free, with only the obligation to fill the gas tank and stop to enjoy God's magnificent works, had finally had a taste of what it needed to breathe easy. Almost as obvious to those who know me, as an addict to a counselor, my yearning for that wide, welcoming stretch of paved justice was -and is- insatiable. I'm sure that if the other drivers had bothered to look a little longer, they'd have seen a soul who was indeed sublimely happy.

No more shifting, no stopping, just the subtle acceleration of a lead foot, an ever-loosening grip on the wheel and a deafening peace screaming from the speakers.

To be one with the machinery that was my partner in crime felt... exquisite. Like the first bite of food after a fast. I debated a phonecall and a lie so that I could prolong my escape from reality; a quick stop at a payphone --untraceable by the supervisor-- and I'd be back on my way. It seems, however, to be too painful to stop the car just to make an excuse. Too much time lost to the cruel reality of work and responsibility. I couldn't stop. Even if I had, I'd be in for it tomorrow. No, best just to turn around and be a few minutes late back from lunch.

Turn I did, and put myself back toward the straight and narrow. Enjoying the last fleeting moments before my indirect imprisonment proved difficult. The speed-induced breeze seemed only cold now, instead of exhilarating as it had been just a moment before. How could it have changed with my direction? I was still driving, still on the same road. Now, though, I knew where I was headed and no longer was I wild.

The moment was gone. I was speeding not to get away, but to get back before anyone would notice that I'd been gone just a bit too long.

The parking lot seemed a threat, the door a gaping maw, bent on consuming my free will in order that I do my thankless job with a thankful smile.

No one had noticed my tardiness, except the books -who leered at me from their shelves- silent witnesses to my downtrodden hope for freedom.

Sadistic bastards, these books. Dust has collected on some, though not on most. None would see the light of the outer office if it weren't for me. They can smell the fresh air on me, but here I am, back to take them down and put them back, just like yesterday. Just like tomorrow.

Still, there's always the next lunch break, and the next, where I can gulp air devoid of must and mold. When I can run away for another hour. Maybe next time I'll stop and use the payphone off of exit 92 and just listen to the world exhale.

No one can hear you scream in the desert (work in progress)

Nothing says “terror” like a hot desert breeze and the slow sputter of a car dying on the side of Nevada’s Highway 95. It was 12:30 PM, and I was three hours outside of Las Vegas, on the way home to Reno. The trip one way takes an efficient driver 7.5 hours, including a ten minute stop in Tonopah to use the restroom, refill the gas tank and avoid the stares of the small-town locals.

So as my 1989 Volkswagen Cabriolet (also known as “Gretchen”) decided it was time to take a break, my heart leapt to my throat, beating double-time. There was no chance of cell phone reception here in the middle of the desert. It seemed as though the towering telephone poles - the only tall things in plain sight excepting the distant mountains - stood testament to the foolishness that was the thought of using a wireless phone. I quickly took stock of what I’d need to get to the next town. Tonopah was an ominous 30 mile hike from my position, and while I knew there was a small town just on the other side of the hills, I had no idea what the mechanic situation was. I’d been through the town tens of times before, on my way to or from the only two outposts of humanity in Nevada, and it seemed reasonable enough that there was someone there that could help me.

Upon further consideration of the mile-long hike uphill in the desert, trudging along the side of the road in the mid-day heat was not quite so alluring as sitting in my crippled car and baking to death slowly. It may not sound terribly palatable to those of you reading right now, but I assure you, when faced with miles of asphalt and sand, there is a certain something to be said about a slow, avoidable death. I wasn’t sure how long that would take, or if I would be served medium rare or medium well, it seemed infinitely more appealing than walking to Goldfield. Then again, I did have to be to work on Wednesday. Admittedly, my work ethic is a bit skewed.

I decided that avoiding being eaten by rattlesnakes and kangaroo mice was probably the way to go. Gathering the things that were most important to me (and most interesting to thieves, should there be any marauding coyotes waiting to ransack my car when I’d gone), I closed and locked both doors and turned toward the intermittent Northbound traffic. Thumb out, pointed skyward I squinted into the glaring sun that seemed to be only a few miles above my modest reach.

Thankfully, it took only two tries for me to impart some sort of sympathy from the passers-by. An elderly gentleman with his war-time Asian wife in the passenger seat of their heavy duty truck pulled off the highway, causing a cloud of foul-smelling dust to follow behind the RV that the powerful engine dragged behind. The man hopped from the truck and without hesitation asked what was wrong.

Was I out of gas? Was it overheated? Did I need some water; a ride to Tonopah? I was overwhelmed by his apparent concern for a stranger and answered as best I could. I told him that my battery had died and had been replaced while I was in Las Vegas. I also told him that my battery light had come on once more before the engine died. He seemed to think that the problem was the alternator, that it wasn’t charging the battery properly.

He was wrong. Clearly, he had no idea of knowing that I had replaced the alternator just two weeks previous. It was a Bosch. It was installed by a certified master mechanic. The week before that, the master fuel pump was replaced, and the week before that, it was the slave cylinder. I had just replaced the last of the four tires, as well. It boggled my mind, but as the large truck pulled back onto the highway and the wife turned to ask me if I needed some water, I was already attempting to figure out the best course of action. I had chanced to think that the alternator was bad as Gretchen rolled to the side of the road, but I had quickly corrected myself. There was absolutely no way my mechanic would do this to me.

The drive to what was charitably called a town was short, but no less awkward than I had dreaded. The wife kept asking if I wanted to go to Tonopah instead of Goldfield. Her broken English seemed to have been taught by the husband, given her southern twang matched his. Given the visual of an aged woman of Asian descent, it seemed to fit her awkwardly, like a little girl wearing her father’s cowboy hat.

I insisted that I would be fine, that I was neither hungry nor thirsty and that, if all else failed, I had family in Vegas who could come rescue me. As the buildings grew and faded in frequency all within eyesight, the driver and I both began to lose faith that this haphazard gathering of humanity harbored any manner of help for me or my car. Just as I thought to rescind my offer to tough it out in Goldfield and accept the ride to Tonopah, we cried “there we go” in unison.

Out of the truck I shuffled, thanking the man and his wife profusely. They wanted to know if they should stay and give me a ride to Tonopah if people aren’t helpful here. I said I didn’t want to hold them up any longer, though really the answer that first screamed in my brain was something akin to ‘just take me home with you, I’ll cook, I’ll clean, I’ll even wipe your ass if you say please.’ Perhaps I’m just too Midwestern farm-girl to actually say something even close to that.

As I approach the shack, I note the tow truck and the car in the front lot, which I suppose could be called a parking lot. Inside the car that had been towed were two boys probably in their early teens. When I say ‘inside,’ though, I mean quite literally inside... Standing in the engine compartment, rooting around for parts or some other such activity one would expect from vagrants/junkyard heathens. I suspect that when the apocalypse happens and monkeys start repopulating the world, they’ll do much the same thing; scrounging for useful parts left over from the humans’ habitation of the top rung on the food chain.

The car looked as though it had been sandblasted by a blind man; original paint was faded, and the primer gray shone through, giving me the fleeting thought of a jack o'lantern grinning a gap-toothed smile. A little macabre, and not the image I wanted burned into my brain, especially considering the fact that I was looking for assistance from these people, whatever sort of people they might have been. I started to hear imaginary banjos start to play in my brain. I’ve seen Deliverance; I know how this could end… Instead of indulging the fantasy, I focused on what lie before me.

The structure looked as though it had been there for eons. Each rusted nail seemed to be hanging on for dear life, determined to be the very last one to keep the roof attached to the rest of the ramshackle hull of the place. It was small, uninviting and infested with both children and rotting husks of ancient pickup trucks. . . but it was there. Settling myself into a hopeful smile, I opened my cell phone but I was quickly as disappointed as I had been when I’d opened it twenty minutes ago, nearer my car. No matter! I was with people now and not in the middle of the desert without human contact. This was certainly a step up from being stuck inside my car, slowly roasting to death in order to provide an excellent meal for the Gila monsters or whatever sort of animal lived out in the desert.

As I approached the building I noted the astounding plethora of dogs, children and Chevy parts surrounding me. Odd, but I grew up in a small, rural town, so I tend to consider myself adept at rolling with the rednecky punches (I was inclined to think there was no such thing as a 'rednecky punch'... this experience taught me differently). The children all stopped and stared, one taking the time to wipe his forehead with his arm. It was hot, nearly 95 degrees already and it was hardly afternoon.

None of the children spoke to me and seemed instead, content to stand and stare as though I were some strange, shiny thing that they rarely got a glimpse of. I had the feeling that in this town, I would be the pretty one. This is never a good feeling, as most of the time being the pretty one, the new one, the strange one or the weird one always breeds curiosity or contempt. Either way, I did not want to draw undue attention to myself so I disconnected my just-as-slack-jawed-as-theirs stare from the children and headed toward the building on the premises. If I didn’t know any better, I would have sworn I had entered one of the creepier, children-centric horror movies… the kind where you end up being chased through a corn field by the little blond-haired, blue-eyed kid.

Stepping into the decrepit structure, I decided it seemed more equipped to handle local flea market excursions than automotive needs. 8-track cassettes, Beta Max players, Atari consoles and black and white televisions were jammed up against the wall in hand-made shelves. The balance of the room was dominated by old appliances - most from the 1950's era - as well as magazines, shoes, clothing and kitchenware. All of it was covered with a rather well established layer of dust and desert grit that seemed to have settled over everything and everyone I'd seen since I hopped out of the Veteran's truck. Undeterred, I smiled at the early-teenaged girl who appeared at the counter. She, upon seeing a somewhat-distressed stranger, leaned back to yell “Gran’pa!” and then smiled, holding up one finger to me, as though she surmised instantly that she could do nothing for me.

Presently, an older man in black suspenders, silver crew-cut and a scowl appeared. He was wiping his hands on a shop towel. This was just the sight that I had wanted. The waving of the red fabric between his thick, greasy fingers made me breathe a sigh of relief. I was saved. Surely, this was an excellent sign!

He unabashedly assessed me as I told my tale of woe, then grunted and shook his head, “Sorry, but I’m tryin’ to get out of the repair business. I’m retired.”

I stood there; mouth agape for a long moment, staring at him as though he’d sprouted a second head on his shoulders. I nearly screamed. Surely he was pulling my chain. If what he said was true, the sign declaring “24- hour service station” was highly misleading. Instead of bringing this to his attention in a calm and rational manner, as I normally would have done, I started to cry.

I feel that at this juncture, it is important to note that I am not the sort of woman to lose my cool in a stressful situation. I have had a flat tire in the same county in which they filmed the move Deliverance; I have been locked in a bomb shelter; I have been surrounded by security guards who didn’t speak anything but Russian and I’ve handled myself well in most other sketchy situations.

Once more, a slow, hot death in the car was looking terribly appealing. Unfortunately for me, it was now miles away, baking in the hot desert sun as I should have been. I silently cursed the fact that I had decided to go and hitch a ride into ‘town.’ So it was with a sigh, I asked the man if I could use his phone, being that I couldn’t get my cell phone to decide it wanted to pick up any of the very weakest signals. He agreed and I called my boyfriend to tell him I was going to be ‘a little bit late’ coming home. He was understandably worried for me, but I told him that everything was fine. I lied, of course. At this point, I was fairly certain that nothing was fine and I would end up with my head on a pike placed near the roadside to warn all out-of-towners what happened to people who sought assistance.

After I finished up my call, the man who identified himself as CJ, asked if there was someone I could call to help me get back home. Explaining my situation further, I commented that my closest rescue was in Las Vegas, but that I needed to get home to Reno today. He pondered this for a moment, fingers dipping into the belt loops on his worn blue jeans.

“Tell ya what, hop in the truck. There’s a guy in town who could be able to help you out. He’s not a mechanic, really but he’s good with cars.”

I was elated. A ray of hope! My father, who worked with cars most of his life, and who is incredibly mechanically inclined, would never call himself a mechanic but I’m sure he’d have been able to assess and fix my problem. With this rationale, I was certain that the man CJ was speaking of was of the same ilk. Not a mechanic, but someone who could help.

Still a little teary-eyed, I got into the passenger side of CJ’s truck and buckled myself in. Undoubtedly, it was going to be a short trip, but I decided that obeying the rules of the road here applied. Once in the car, CJ informed me that not only was he retired and helping to raise his grandchildren, but that he was the county commissioner. A prestigious position, definitely. I congratulated him on his appointment and, between checking his mirrors, he eyed me sidelong.

“So what’s a good, god-fearin’ girl like you doing in the city of sin?” he asked with a decidedly biblical note in his voice. Clearly, this man doesn’t know me very well.

“Oh, I was just visiting some friends.” I add, leaving out the part that involved drinking, staying up ‘till all hours of the morning and generally marauding around barefoot in a public park wearing a bodice and armed with a dagger.

He left my trip to Las Vegas alone after that and started to describe the man with whom he’d be leaving me. It didn’t seem like a bad idea in theory; this man, Bubba, was good with cars and was always home. He didn’t charge much and had been able to help lots of people since the service station had gone out of business. He was a good, Christian man and shouldn’t give me any problems whatsoever. Bolstered by these descriptions, I watched intently as we pulled into a driveway between two double-wide mobile homes. Each was separated into threes, apparently because the rent on a whole double-wide was a little much for the residents of Goldfield. I began to get a little worried.

I reached for the door handle of the truck and started to unbuckle my seatbelt, but CJ put his hand on my arm and said “Wait a second, let’s see if he’s home.” He stuck the silvered head of a war veteran out the driver’s side window and bellowed,

“Ey Bubba… you home?”

From inside the trailer we heard rustling and then a muffled “Yeah…”

“You dressed?” CJ called from the truck. I immediately knew exactly why he’d cautioned me to stay in the truck. The response only confirmed my suspicion.

“…Gimmie a minute.”

I was truly glad that I was able to hide the look of horror that crossed my face for a split second. The thought of what a man named Bubba would look like without clothes made me shudder. Not only that but a grown man that answered to ‘Bubba’ was not exactly bolstering my faith in the fairytale that I had concocted in my brain that involved me getting my car fixed.

True to his word, Bubba emerged from the trailer a few moments later with a gap-toothed grin and a squint into the blazing hot daylight. Momentarily, I wondered how they had trained a bear to put overalls on without assistance. He was a larger man, easily six foot three and a biscuit shy of three hundred and fifty pounds. The tattered red shirt he wore beneath the overalls was covered in grease and sweat stains, but was passable for a man who was going to do some work on a car; trouble was, he didn’t know about that yet. The few silver hairs on the top of his head were all akimbo, giving him the appearance of a gnarled cockatoo. In his massive hands, he held a beer each and smiled at CJ as he lumbered down the steps from the trailer toward the truck.

I started sobbing. Uncontrollably. Like a little girl whose hamster has “run away” mysteriously in the night.