Sunday, April 19, 2015

Breakfast Crow

 Journal: (Sat. This is deep and I’m a poor swimmer)
“Alight then brother, no offense meant. Hey, let’s go to the elder’s tent this morning at Pow Wow. They’ll be serving up free breakfast food for us card carryin’ geezers. There will be Egg Mc Frybread with sausage and cheese and Jim Snorton coffee and donuts for our Canadian relation.”

Clay stood, laced up his shoes and said, “C'mon, let’s go Ain’t it. I wanna get as much of our grub past my lily liver before it goes on permanent strike and turns me pitiful yellow.”

“Okay buddy, my bones need their aches appeased with some movement. You doing fine though, I mean no-pill-needed fine?”

Clay was up from his chair and heading to the door already. He seemed better off than me dammit all. Maybe those pills would whack the sense of dread on its noggin poking out from somewhere deep in my subconscious. I considered stealing one.

“I’m fine brother, yah, feelin’ saucy even. Look, it’s a fine Saturday morning. Shucks, if I feel this good tomorrow I’m goin’ to church. You can come. Never too late ya know, get your heart healed and set free, and the preacher…”

“Hell no! Don’t start in on me with that again. You know I got no respect for the man after what he did to you, well, failed to do. He scoured your ass with scriptures when you were suicidal that one time. He should’ve put hands and feet to what he blabs about and been a friend to you on a regular basis. He only has a flock of 25 sheeple. Anyway, no thanks. I respect your belief but not region.”

I had unduly insulted Clay and my outburst made for some delicate silence as we walked to the Pow Wow in late morning sunshine and tee shirt weather. I drove quiet reflection away with an apology.

“Man brother, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to slap the shit outta your good mood. I wasn’t any better than what I accused the minister of doing. You held no grudge with him. Anyhoo bro, I apologize. Hey, speaking of names, what do make of the names used by these spirits of yours?”

Clay cleared his throat and coughed.

“I forgive ya Ain’t It. And with them names of spirits, not sure. Doc said I made them up to help me, yah, like spirit guides or somethun. Said they face and do what I can’t. Nah, ain’t so. I didn’t make them spirits up and give ‘em names. They are real and I betcha even you, Mr. Skpetical science guy, is havin’ second thoughts about it.”

“Cripes Clay, you could have said I don’t know when asked.”

“How ‘bout you Ain’t It? You think them names mean somethun? Maybe you oughta ask.”

I squeezed the shotgun shell from the outside of my jeans pocket and imagined lining up Clay’s spirits. If I mashed them into a tight line side by side and stood at the right distance, I could blast all 8 at once, be done, and go home.

Things were getting serious and we needed some fun. Maybe the event organizers would do so corny skit or game later.

“Well ignore me why don’t ya,” said Clay.

“Oh, ah, sure bud. Next time one shows up I’ll ask about the name,” I replied.

I thought of home and how my wife’s love increased with each day I put behind me in hell surrounded by fudgies.

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