It is an hour walk to the well and there are children and women and old men at the well. The sun is hot and yellow and I have turned dark and callous in the afternoon. The end of the wellborn child, against the sand, struts into a leadership role and plagues himself with nude walks.
He is red, she says and she is spent and she is a hooker. We are tired of hookers in the backyard. They aren’t using the toilets. That is Garrison. He is the banker and he makes $4.25 an hour because it is no longer 1950. I only have twenties and fifties, Garrison says. The hag needs to make it to the store so she can buy eggs.
Get the fuck out of my store.
There is sound in the other room, there is music there, and people are playing instruments and the instruments are the guitar, the cello, the saxophone, and the drums. They are pretty talented and energized and there is good music.
But I don’t fucking care.
In the morning of the fourth day that I quit trying to have sex with the fat girl that liked to sit at the bar, my hand turned yellow and I began to vomit because I had bad fucking karma. Jesus didn’t help me either and I told him as much.
I bought a piece of shit motorcycle and it broke down on 101.
It is fifty-three miles across the southern part of the state. Troy biked it in four hours because there were a lot of hills. He ate a hamburger and he drank a milkshake and he told the waitress that he didn’t want fucking mayonnaise on his hamburger.
I don’t fucking care what you want, she said.
The end of the year came and it wouldn’t have really mattered what happened in January. The goddamn children were still at the well and I still had to wait in line and it was hot as fuck.
Everyone else, all of them, is just mutes.