I was there visiting a friend's family. His grandmother might be immortal; whenever she buys a sterling silver crucifix, they say it turns to gold within hours and polishing doesn't help. Everyone in the family is stumped and weary. She says to me at breakfast, "Your dress is pretty," and later that day, "What are you, girl, a hunchback?"
I hope I'm a tough broad when I'm old. I think the majority of old people are capable of punching a hole through my head.
The whole family is as frank and quick-witted as its matriarch. Says one aunt, "I worked as a receptionist in a doctor's office once. I didn't answer those fuckin' phones."
It is the middle of the country and the farm dogs run in packs. They're wearing lipstick, eyes of human drug addicts, aggressive. As we drive through the neighborhood, four dogs gallop round the bend and bum-rush my car, hairs raised, dried blood. They bite the tires until the spinning rubber makes them squeal.
The dogs are either run over, or they're eaten alive by a rival pack. They trail your heels as you walk. One of them will rear up on his hind legs and crack you over the skull with a Dos Equis bottle. His cronies then all rise to their hind legs, holding their lower backs like old maids, the wise pit bull putting on his specs. They'll form a circle around your soaked, sunburnt body. You wake up in a sweat. Cigars thicken the air. You're in an upside-down camper, hogtied beneath a table at which seven dogs sit playing poker. One of the little guys leans down and blows you a smoky kiss. You have no idea what will become of you. All you know is he's the most interesting man in the world.
The dogs are either run over, or they're eaten alive by a rival pack. They trail your heels as you walk. One of them will rear up on his hind legs and crack you over the skull with a Dos Equis bottle. His cronies then all rise to their hind legs, holding their lower backs like old maids, the wise pit bull putting on his specs. They'll form a circle around your soaked, sunburnt body. You wake up in a sweat. Cigars thicken the air. You're in an upside-down camper, hogtied beneath a table at which seven dogs sit playing poker. One of the little guys leans down and blows you a smoky kiss. You have no idea what will become of you. All you know is he's the most interesting man in the world.
Sunday morning was particularly lovely due to a call from A cappella Zoo, a "web and print journal of magic realism and slipstream." They want to publish my story "Movie Man." Fall 2010 issue. Boom.
This is Teeny! She's one of the good guys.
