d
She was sort of big-boned, carried it well, the great big old son of a
bitch. You had to bring her scratch-offs akd a wizzie guzzle every day,
at least once a day, and it was the john lennon lyric, custard in a
dead dogs eye: i am the ape man, and so forth, hell she was basically
the windmills of old holland, the powderee chocolate mess we microwave
in the mornings, and the only thing that warmed up up was the sight of
my handprints on the fields, were she had her 1965 doublewide set up,
porches and all that bullshit, and her, too stuck in the doorframe to
take to the porch, but her hair was perfect pornographic broomstraw, and
it never really degenerated that fair, beyond the devil himself
whispering in our ears, and if you caught her changing clothes, more
upholstery shop that charnal house, mote national geographic than
carnal knowledge, and me Tarzan all over that, going full coconuts
before she got her serape on, like she just wears a snuggie or
something, looking at my poor ass like im a science experiment that
slowly going wrong.
And her math: hieroglyphics of a wonderfully
more civilized epoch, a kind of spit on the sidewalk, and the manager
offered bananas, and me wondering if the weirdo had a secret supply
hidden in our work area, it was transient enough thought and brook no
further probing, that one lady, commissioned a lieutenant, even, smart
to know better but unable to control her impulses. "I use napkins down
there all day." And me not knowing a come on line, not picking that
from "take my aging ass to the doctor, mike". It could been bladder
prolapse or something, a mesh mishap or some other, i mean really, was i
the "women's doctor" or her work husband? She said the stove was tore
up, and me trying not to threaten to hit her in the head with my ball
peen that my uncle give me--that shit was solid--and all the while, they
said she was boinking a state trooper that had married into her family,
and you talk about making for a toxic environment; i was stuck my own
head at the time.
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