Jesup, Part the Second (a new chapter)

ron's momma waits for him at the top of the steps on the wide white marble veranda ron lifting one foot after another the bleached snowy stone staccato heavy and dull on this morning echoing a somber flat note

this august morning

this morning that has taken forever to get going this morning set in the middle of this fucking swamp of time that they have circled circumnavigated circumscribed circle jerked about all summer

ron would just as soon shoot his wad get on with it

ron all of eighteen not far from nineteen having finished up his freshman courses at emory university that fine establishment of higher learning nestled away in a halcyon-laced fuzzy forest green shire in the middle of modern atlanta finished up freshman year a couple months back a lifetime ago well after planting season around about in june not an exceptional year his professors not proclaiming his academic prowess not declaring him a bastion of pedagogic future

he has not yet found his place in the sun has not yet unleashed his passion for learning within those hallowed halls

ron johnson who has been known to run naked through the corridors of dobbs hall bong in hand acid on his brain a red brown farmer's tan contrasting against pasty pale skin and orangish yellow pubic hairs that run a thin trickling tickle all the way up to his freckly puss

he ron johnson no he has not yet found his path he has not yet found that yellow brick road that land of milk and honey that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow all he has found maybe is a little bit of his own private idaho

and even that

sketchy

at best

and even that

a vaporous cyclorama undulating in a rhythm uncertain a song composed of oft-hidden notes randomly poking their sweet little heads out from behind the rocks cluttering the landscape distinguishing his high desert from the bonneville salt flats of non-existence of utter boredom

he ron johnson no he has not yet found his path but he has tucked a year of schooling behind him one down how many more to go

depends oh it just depends

but he has tucked one more year behind him and he is back in jesup same as it always was hey howdy mister mac how's them soy beans growing this year hey howdy mister henry i hope this dry spell don't harm your corn none hey howdy johnny james your daddy buy you another transam

the azaleas the rhododendrons my my in june oh my in july tsk tsk in a drought wrought august

ron johnson his momma waits for him at the top of the steps on the wide white marble veranda

of the courthouse

big white columns reaching to the heavens supporting the cushioned divan of justice herself she who lounges in her silken robes

blindfolded

her legs gently parted

easily parted

by those who could by those who would

his momma who stands at the top of the wide wide steps her arms crossed across her blue oxford shirt her short legs extending from the spotlessly clean and pressed knee length khaki skirt an august bandanna wrapped about and beneath to keep her brownish blondish hair off the nape of the neck

which sports twin trails of perspiration a slow salty spirit of the morning

she smiles purposefully weak at first to express not her displeasure simply her wounding disappointment but as ron johnson gets closer her smile widens into a grin she can't be too disappointed in such a boy the way he looks up at her the way he humbles himself before her the way he touches the brim of his cap and nods she cluck-clucks and chuckles inwardly at his goofy big feet too big for the steps she can't be disappointed in him in her only son after all

god so loved the world and all that