I wander into this bar and encounter Aretha Franklin, the Queen of Soul herself.
She’s lookin’ good, having lost weight and shed a coupla decades.
I say, “Aretha! What are you doin’ here?”
She says, “Oh, just comin’ round”.
In front of her on the bar is a 6-pack of Schlitz cans, one of which she has cracked; and a coupla others loose of the plastic rings.
“So, how’s your heavenly home?” I ask.
“It’s alright”, in a meh kind of tone, responds.
“We drink bong juice. And I have a young pretty girlfriend. It’s kinda gay up there.”
Grampa Methuselah was so old…(Chorus: How old was he?) All his grandchildren had long since gotten old themselves and died.
He had descendants, indistinguishable from the general population, which, of course, they were.
Forlorn desolate abandoned deserted long ago whispering winds blow chills.
Were they chickadees that sang & hopped & pecked at the trunk of the tree? I’m up there sweeping the roof & pitching it over the side. Tearing out the ivy & lightening the load. The little birds aren’t frightened. They seem to know me.
We were having such fun, too. Dancing to the groovy blues stylings of DJ Nixon’s rockin’ set. Talk was small, but comfortable.
My partner cut out to try some new dance in some distant land; hopefully, I thought, to return, and together we would wow the crowd with the wonderful gyrations she had found.
But time went on, as it does when you’re having fun, until it started not to because you’re not.
So the party broke up and only stragglers remained, including me, disheartened.
Yeah, so I carried a can of beer around in my hand most of the day. It was contained within the right-sized paper sack. The liquid would run out and I would replenish it, replace the can. I used the same bag all day in the name of ecology.
On my hip was Daddy’s revolver, holstered. I didn’t pull it once, even when a couple of guys looked at me wrong. I felt a degree of confidence knowing the chamber was fully loaded, so I stared back hard. Neither wanted to mess with a crazy man and went on his way.
It was the gun and the Dutch confidence of a drunkard. An unbeatable combination. A little coke or meth dusted on the top, I might now be some kind of kingpin.
I played little league. Our team wasn’t any good but we had spirit!
Our team was the Cubs and we lost a lot and we all wanted to be the Rams who won.
But I love baseball. I played right field. I didn’t have sunglasses so I squinted a lot. It was pretty boring because kids don’t hit real hard. And when they did it was such a surprise to have to wake up from my daydream.
I hated being at bat. I couldn’t judge the pitches at all and just swung wildly. Sometimes I’d hear “Good eye!” yelled if I didn’t swing.
When I hit the ball which was very rare they screamed “Run!” I’d forget to because I was amazed to hit it and just stood and watched it. But prompted, I’d run.
Not sure if I ever made it home or slid and got my uniform dirty which would’ve been a badge of honor.
At the end of the season we had an awards banquet and I got one for participation. It held a place of honor in my bedroom for many years.