Monday, June 13, 2011

Jesup, part the sixteenth, monday monday

and it’s monday it’s a monday in june and ron is at work he's not working but he's there occupying space and time there at his at his place of summer employment working for bobby's daddy bobby of the shirtless double bird bobby of the double yellow line crossing bobby whose daddy owns the place bobby who will one day maybe if he lives if he stays out of jail if he if he if he

yeah maybe

it’s a fucking roll of the dice a game of chance a draw of the short straw a flip of the coin an unknown algorithm decided configured perfected by that nameless godhead that master architect of intelligent design who weaves our collective and individual fates into the fabric of time

god is a baptist but jesus was an accident an unintended consequence suffering six sigmas don’t you know perfection rests on the most fragile of variables

desideratum demands diligence

but death is easy it’s the blink of an eye the snap of the fingers the slight distraction from detail a drunken detour right when the lane leans left a culvert pipe its mouth open like jonah’s whale

and ron he’s at work on this monday this post-hallucinatory float atop a sea of worry and hope and ron he’s out back in the warehouse sitting back leaning back on a stack of big rectangular bags of peat moss laid this way and that in a makeshift lazy boy recliner the dried peat puffing out through tiny air holes each time he moves each time he fidgets he relaxes rather ron he simply reflects watching the morning clock tick tock if he smoked he'd be smoking if he did heroin if he even knew where to buy heroin if he knew one could really buy heroin here in jesup he'd probably be running it up floating back down like scooby-do do on saturday mornings after his scooby snack floating away doing that magic carpet ride up and out of town but the clock it ticks it tocks one slow second after the other some balzacian reminder of anticipated guilt he ron he wastes time his time his boss's time his boss's money time is money he ron he relaxes finds his zone finds that daytime should be nighttime rhythm infusing his post weekend tripster ennui with long lip pursing sips from the warm and now melted grape slurpee picked up from the suwannee swiftee this morning when he stopped for gas the syrupy stickiness of the concoction wrought upon this earth by refugees from the coca cola gulag a nehi dynasty dancing on his tongue like the bare feet of a dozen sugar cane workers just in from a hot afternoon of burning off the field

his lips smack but not with anything close to enjoyment

not that anything might ease these maudlin monday morning blues as he sits back leans back beneath the slow hypnotic twirl of one of the several overhead fans that celebrate the ceiling hanging from the rafters on long galvanized pipe he tries to follow the one blade afflicted with the moldy silvery sheen of duct tape wrapped round its midsection a nigger rigged splint that limps round and round and round but he gets dizzy and closes his eyes

only to be awakened seconds minutes hours days weeks later by the crackling cackling of bobby's daddy calling for ron over the intercom

ron where you at boy got a run for yall

ron his eyes do an ultra slow motion flutter stutter and stare into the void that is this his summer of satisfaction he struggles rolls off his bag o' dirt divan gets himself to his feet a little lightheaded stumbles through the shadowed dustiness of the warehouse tripping over a push broom left lingering in the aisle stops to pick it up leans it back up against a cheap pine lattice painted up all redwood not so different from not unlike the one town whore that might show up on a friday saturday night at the cocktail lounge off the lobby of the king of the road motor inn at the edge of town

he goes up to the register at the front of the store bobby's daddy hands him a handwritten ink and tobacco stained invoice says begins to say stops pauses leans over lets loose with a long stringy slinky spit into the white plastic bucket next to the counter a white bucket already spotted from rim to bottom already having been the recipient of a thousand and twelve shots some on the money some drunkenly hitting the edge splitting the difference bobby's daddy he hands him an invoice says

hey now

pauses fist touched to chest assisting a slight silent gaseous emission says

fill out this here order load up the truck take it on out yonder to the hopkins place

he says bobby's daddy he says the judge he ain't home said he wouldn't be home probably off spending our tax money on a high priority guv'mint mission to the golf course

bobby's daddy he spits says rather mumbles as he turns says

goddamned lawyers

ron he looks a little confused he starts to ask


waits for bobby's daddy to spit

ron he says so if he ain't home where you think he wants me to heft it

bobby's daddy he spits again an irritating ping into the bucket lets drop the whole used up chaw in behind it with a flat plop he says hell boy don't you go to college to learn or you just up there wastin' your daddy's money smokin' that mary-wanna

bobby's daddy hands now on hips shaking his head he says


he says

hell just unload it stack it all up on the side of the garage

ron he takes the list he studies the list bobby's daddy he wanders out front to have himself another chew he leans over his little foil pack of red man opens his jaw shovels shredded tobacco product into his mouth back up into his cheek packs it in until it's full using his fingers to stuff it all up pack it all up

a long dark thick stream yo yo'ing out between his lips down down bouncing up down down slowly down a little further bouncing up dripping down dancing on the bungee cord a little further til he bobby's daddy he grits his teeth tightens his lips just a bit cutting off the tobacco taffy pull watching it splat down onto the sidewalk outside

a few tannic drops spattering leaping onto his creased ben davis breeches

ron walks back to the office to get the keys to the truck he stops at the old black phone on the desk dials out the seven numbers one painfully after another too many nines and eights


hey you home


i got a delivery out to your place your old man playing golf you gonna be there i'm coming over

the voice on the other end of the line slides into a slight pause a little short gasp barely audible the voice on the other end it says

cool hurry up and come on i'll be in the day room downstairs it's cooler back there

see you in a bit

and ron he glances down at the list as he backs the truck up to the warehouse loading dock

and ron he loads the truck with a few bags of soil a few bags of peat moss one still holding his butt print like it was plaster of paris a few bags of mulch four large potted azalea plants

and ron he jumps off the loading dock and climbs behind the wheel turning the key to hear a click another click and another then a catch and a whine and a cough and a fart and a grunt and finally a roar

and ron he works the three on the tree and the clutch in two part harmony the tires spin just a bit on the gravel as he punches the gas and leaves the lot

a single rock escapes the rear flaps pops out from beneath the rubber like a tiddly wink


an old tin washtub standing on its side like a bass drum down at the edge of the property painted adorned with the words jesup feed and seed pings it with a


pulls onto the road heads north out toward the edge of town the road that leads out to the hopkins place passes the trailer park with the little fountain gurgling at the entrance separating the coming in from the going out passes fat old mister thomas riding his little red comet riding lawnmower his pale white belly jiggling all jelly roll across his brownish green lawn exhaust and dust and trimmings and lizard legs blowing out the side ron he waves mister thomas he nods touches the brim of his panama hat

the edge of town gives way to plots of pine separating surrounding a couple of small fields one of them hosting a greying wood structure a cabin a shack a home sitting up under beside a tall poplar a clothes line running from the house to a tall post thirty feet away two pair of gym socks a pair of briefs and a thin white sheet pinned to the line limp and hanging contributing to and absorbing the humidity

ron he slows downshifts into second the truck jumps and moans he turns into the long driveway that winds up through a small grove of pecan trees that says gentleman farmer that separates the house from the road running back on into town that splits into a fork near the corner of the house one branch leading up and around the front forming a little circular la-de-da before the faux off white plantation era columns splotched with the stains of this past spring's spider webs the other branch going on around back to the building that serves as garage barn and tool shed

ron has his hands on the steering wheel ten and two the wheel loose and forgiving the tires crunching on the gravel dust puffing up and into the open windows as if the elements conspire to mask the oncoming interloper the big truck moving slowly purposefully on around back up around and next to the garage unseen from the front ron he opens the door with a creak a squeak that breaks the heavy silence of the cloudless midday he looks toward the house

the back door's open

1 comment:

Victoria said...

mmmm mmmmm love the way you leave us hanging..