The squirrel's jaws were full, and Doug smiled as he crossed over to the S-10, the broke-down 80s model, made in part with Isuzu, the square-bodied little acquired low-to-the-ground thing with the inarticulate six cylinder engine that both breathed in and out noxious fumes.
Such factory agreements, common among those that clung to high positions, Isuzu contra General Motors, and such smiles from Doug usually meant someone needed stitches.
I had wore my Jesus shirt; hoping to instruct Doug, but these things are ever uncertain, in my perview, and more certain to others--its a lifestyle I reckoned, and looked at him as if he were the equivalent of a Radio Shack or Texas Instruments machine that ever needed to be checked behind when it calculated: Doug.
He had gotten a scurrilous little preview of something from Batley Dairy, a woman beseiged by her man, him a fearmonger, and she a fear-wort, and all, and he thought to make an impression, not by his thumbprint or the print of his ass in a chair, but the impression of his penis in a kind of dough or something, his life, but a cake all for her, cakes and illicit drugs, ragging on pictures of elected officials' family members broadcast on television in various states of undress: what passes for discourse with our betters.
My Jesus shirt, I remember, and me telling them, Darnell, and his brother Darnell, and Doug, and all, telling them the reports from people that they had found the interment spot of the brother of Jesus, and all that.
"It's all going uphill."
Doug was listless, but going on about driving his truck, stories I felt rang familiar, but ignored, anyway, because it was filtered through Doug's own hard and diseased thinkmeats, and watching the food fall from the squirrel's mouth, and his smile becoming an open-mouth gape, I know Doug would not remember any lesson from life marked without pain, and as such, his tales of road women were marked with a kind of disillusioned illusory kind of soap opera denouement from his penis, such that as to Onan, in his air-ride seat, floating, still listless, he might shed water from his eyes, the old bean.
When Doug drove uphill, he had said, it got slower and slower, and there was a light "touch" sound from his twenty two caliber coming to rest against the cab wall, the rear of it, as the grade increased, and the truck, growing ever slower, his ears perhaps popping from the change in air pressure, and the effecting being as if he had transmogrified his own dimness into the very brightness of the rising sun.
We had asked him to buy a portable headset from Big Lots, down the street, which came recommended, but not for quality, but a good price, and we wanted him to have it, but it was not a work expense recognized by the place, but something among the streetgang inside the place, a bloodthirsty cozened lot that would do murder without so much as a blink.
I was gonna call him, in fact, to tell him the Easter story, but I remembered that he was a scumbag, and I was glad he was out of my life, so he would have to read the story, posted under an assumed name, on some random website, all with Sniggers chocolate around his mouth and on his index finger and thumb: he held the Sniggers like it was, well, contraband in itself, a rebuke against nature and reality, that if he had it, ever, properly had it off, it was on the run, and he would bust the flower to annoy the bee, perpetually, because that was his nature: his turning away from the squirrel, with the nut gore on the ground far beneath, it was his own brotherhood with love and loss, and all those things, and somewhere in that, he justified even his own existence, if only to himself.
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