Trip to town fraught with worry and delay, like a band of wild Indians after my wagon.
The ride in held up by a muletrain, or maybe a muleheaded woman doing twenty-five tops. Braked at corners, but not for the stop signs, she did. Town librarian informs me they don’t have the H.S. yearbooks so I can’t look up the varmint I’m framing to make sure he’s the right one. I’m the hold-up at the grocery store since the grapefruit juice is mismarked and not two for five dollars. Lady in front of me in the pharmacy with a new insurance card that of course doesn’t work. Then the lady ahead of me at the register doesn’t have the money to pay for what’s in her basket. But she rummages through her purse anyway, mumbling about the old man having her card. The trip home, all the way home, by the river, uphill and all, is right in the tracks of my guide, an overfilled dumptruck.
And today was the day I was gonna work outside.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology