I haven’t been writing a lot lately. My agent called, reminding me of an upcoming show in London. It was dark when she called, but moonlight glinted on the shards of glass that lay amongst the flowers, beneath the broken bulb.
One of those numchuck kids had rolled by, wreaking havoc. The one who lives down with his mama in the double wide you passed, when you came in.
I’ve been working on some new pieces for the show.
The kiln is firing now. It’s “Africa Hot” in that kiln.
90 words and maybe 5 cubes, if you stretch it just a bit!
I sat across the table from Dad. We were talking about what the Doctor had said.
“Dr. Domenicalli wants you to slow down a little bit, Dad.” I thought I would try this argument, but didn’t expect it to do much good. Dad never really believed in doctor’s anyway.
“Yeah, well screw that. I’ve never had so much fun. What does he know? Just a quack.”
“He’s worried about you, Dad. Hell, we’re all worried about you. Jeeze you went to a free concert and saw Guns and Roses at the Boardwalk last weekend. You’re almost 96 years old. What do you know for Guns and Roses?”
“I know a lot now. I know that they used to be famous. I know one of them is named Axl, and one is named Slash, I never knew anybody named Slash before. I took Carrie to that concert too. Afterwards we went and got matching tattoos. Did I show you?”
Dad stood up and started to undo his belt and turn around.
“That’s OK, Dad. I don’t think I want to see your new tattoo… Wait a minute, did you say you and Miss Loudermilk got matching tattoos?”
“Yeah.” He grinned impishly, “I let her watch me get mine and she let me watch while she got hers.”
I held up my hand, “Too much information, Dad. I don’t think I really want to hear this story.”
“Aww, fer Christ’s sake, Richie, I just watched her get a tattoo. Nothin’ happened. Remember, I’m almost 96 years old. And Carrie’s a month older than I am. I mean – I’m younger now, with my lifestyle and all, but I’m still pretty damn old. I enjoyed watching; but there wasn’t much either of us could do about it. Next weekend me and Carrie are going out to see The Burning Man with some people we met at the concert. We’re gonna turn on and tune out. We might be gone for a few days, maybe a week or more. Make sure you water my plants for me. Will ya?”
“Dad, you don’t have any houseplants.”
“Oh yes I do, Richie. Carrie’s teaching me to grow pot. She had some legacy seeds that she gave me. She said they produced Panama Red and it was some good shit. I can’t believe I forgot to tell you about that. They gotta be this high by now.” He held his hands out, one about 12 or 14 inches above the other.
“Dad!” I started.
“Don’t worry, Richie. I’ll share some with you. I’m no Bogart.”
I stood up and turned towards the refrigerator.
“Can you bring me a beer, Richie?” Dad asked.
“It’s only ten o’clock in the morning, Dad.”
“Yeah, but it’s five o’clock somewhere. Make it a Guinness would ya?”
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