I never owned many pairs of pants. Sure I could have bought a pair for every occasion. Some flashy pair for when I go dancing down at Ed's. A pair with fine hems for paroosing around town. A pair that matched my jacket and tie for when I fill a seat in the old Baptist church. And of course a good pair for sitting on the porch and ignoring the ever so changing world around me. Well I actually own that pair. AS for the other, I don't need special occasion pants because I don't partake in "special occasions" I find dancing redundant and a hurt on my feet. I got no need for "paroosing" around town..making a spectacle of myself just so I can go into ole Maney's store and buy some pipe tobacco and whatever nickel book they got stuffed behind one of them flashy girl magazines. I can do all that in my regular pants. I owned a suit and on the day they put my daddy in the ground next to momma and her sister I went down to the river, wrote a letter to dad. Confessing every lie. every time I took a sip of his jug or a pinch of his baccy. I thanked him for the things a boy should thanks his father for. I also put a few secrets along the edges then stuck it in my right pocket. Filled the left pocket with a handful of creek rock and I drowned that old suit. Maybe the creek beds got a use for a suit. I sure didn't. Besides I ain't filling no seat in that church, I got no problem with a church and i've been talking to the good Lord before I even had a tooth in my head. But that ole building with its velvet pews and a preacher who couldn't hold water if it wasn't for a little whiskey in his blood. That ain't for me. There's an old spring house in the valley, it's mostly a spot for kids to break their bottles and see how far they can get their hands up some good mans daughters shirt, but for me. It was the first place I was put on my knees and just hollered to the Lord. for me. It's my broken down springhouse church.
Some call me bitter and others don't call me at all, I've slipped between the floorboards in their minds and that's just fine by me. But I think all to often my lack of interest in people and their going ons has been misunderstood as "being bitter/hateful a mean old hermit" ah hell..maybe I am. But don't get me wrong I don't hate every person who comes strolling by my house(but I must say for one to "stroll by my house" one must abandon his or her vehicle. Trek in woods that even deer get lost in and avoid old mine-shafts that i've "forgotten" to mark off) there are the occasional fellas whom I don't mind sharing shade with and there's been a few lady folk who stuck by me for a bit. no longer than three months. I guess ladies get bored with the same ole thing everyday, beats me. There's also two youngins that i've taken a liken to. Brother and sister. The sister acts more like the boy, always got her finger in something and blood on her knees. She constantly reminds me that i'm alright by myself: "You know, ain't nothing wrong with a man who sticks to himself, if I was a man i'd stick to myself" she always followed that up with a long stare at my boots, a subtle grin and a quick spit onto my porch. Then she'd be off the poke at my ole goat or see what I had to eat "All you eat is bolonga and stale saltines!!" she said that every time..she's consistent. I liked that, hell it's one of few things I can actually respect. Now the young boy..men say i'm quiet, even my mother said so. But this boy beats all you've seen. If he didn't have such a haunting presence about him you'd forget he was there. When they first stumbled on my house she ran her mouth a mile a minute. Asking me everything from how many hairs I think I got to what I thought was really in the sky besides the clouds and good parents. But the boy he just sat in the corner picking at his britches and winding the dial on an old broken watch. The more they came around the more comfortable he became, he brought me stories he had wrote in school or the old watches he found. He gave me one for my birthday. Well it wasn't my birthday. "Here, I want you to have this. It don't work or anything but you've been around for a while and I assume you've had a few birthdays so think of this as a make-up gift." he handed over a bulky fake gold watch with "To Pete, my strong strong man" engraved on the back. My names not Pete and i'm sure as hell ain't strong. The boy knows that. at least I think he does. I wore it for a few months, I knew it didn't work but I caught myself checking it anyways. Fortunately I had no need for time. still don't. doubt I ever will. Eventually the band broke so I stuck it in my pocket and that's where it's slept ever since. The day I get buried I'll have that watch in my pocket unless some dimwit rummages around in my pockets and steals it. Stealing from the dead, now that's something that ought to make folk lose sleep at night (I don't) stealing in general disgusts me, mainly because i've never truly wanted to own something I didn't already have or knew would come in due time.
When the boy first came around he wore "special occasion" pants, now everyday, he wears those same ole "watching the world pass by" pants. Maybe I should tell him that just because I find "special occasion pants" absurd doesn't mean there's anything wrong with them. It'd break my heart to know the boy passed up life just to be like me. I've never once hated myself. But i've also never wished this life upon anyone else. The boy and girl always came together and outside the view of my porch and yard I didn't know what their lives were like. I never asked. Well I did once, but I didn't ask them. I asked old Maney, he called me a "pervert" and said he had half the mind to tell their folks I was asking about 'em. "Old man Maney! you're right about one thing, you do got half a mind. Now stop sucking air around me before I burn this store down." That's what a part of me wanted to say, that part never gets what he wants. Instead I bought my bolonga and stale saltines for half the price not bothering with friendly salutations or bonding farewells. A man like me shouldn't ask questions, it's not because i'm undeserving of an answer. It's just that when I really think about it..I either already know the answer or i've went this long without knowing and i've been doing just fine. Occasionally the kids will bring me a left-over plate of roast and taters, sometimes even a jelly biscuit. I feed the roast to my goat when they leave, I love roast..well I used to but a man becomes accustom to a certain diet and adding change upsets my stomach. I eat the taters though, the kids watch and you can tell they feel accomplished. On the days they bring biscuits I act extra stuffed from my taters and insist they eat the biscuit. I'm sure they know i'm not stuffed and i'm sure they know I feed their mama's roast to my goat. But it's our routine. It's consistent and it's safe.
Now about my goat, she's a good goat. Of course I have nothing to base this opinion off of but I still like to think she's a good goat. I got her when she was no bigger than a fat ole baby, I found her father with his head stuck in a fence, the breath from his lungs long gone and she was gnawing on a root half expecting him to wake up. or hell I don't know that, she probably knew what was going on. I never named her, the kids call her anne. I call her goat and i'm sure she calls me: dad, roast man or David(that's not my name but she heard it repeadatly one night when I felt real good and sang an old church song about David and Bathsheba at the top of my lungs) or for all I know she don't call me anything. And that's just fine by me. I know my name, although I forget it sometimes. Not on purpose..I just lose track of words.
In the children's eyes I had always been the man sitting on the porch in his "watching the world go by pants" who forgot the use of a razor and owned a goat. But I assured them that I was their age once. Telling them brief stories of my childhood and about growing up. I told them I was an only child, I was on purpose. I hear so many people say their kids was an accident. "an accident?! did they just fall out of your wife?" that's what a part of me wants to say, but that part doesn't say very much. My parents promised me I was on purpose. Mom cleaned for elderly folks around town and dad knew everyone's secretes. He was the garbage man. When I was too young to remember I laid at my mothers ankles while she washed clothes, the water was dripping on me. Mama said that's why i'm such an old soul(now i'm actually an old soul who couldn't stop himself from pissing the bed if his life depended on it..who knows maybe one day it will.) She'd say all the water dripping from those old folks clothes must've got in my soul and aged me real fast. She sang and read to me, songs she made up and words she read off of anything she could find. I learned how to read at an early age, I'd read anything and i'd read it carefully,slowly and close. So close that mama would slap my head "ruin your eyes doing that!!" I listened. That was my only fear growing up. To lose my eyesight and never be able to read. Forced to only hear what people had to say for the rest of my life, even back then what folks had to say did me no good. I'd been in school for years till one day it burnt down, by that time I had found myself..well somewhat, I recreated myself in works of fiction and lined my pockets with poetry and prose and only let my mom and dad see the true me. Thirty-seven days after the school burned down moms sister-my aunt-moved in. She took kindly to drinking and making eyes at anything that walked by. She died a year later, why? i'm not sure. The police came by a lot after the funeral, constantly asking questions and requesting to speak in private. Dad gave them a shoebox of hers one day and that was the last I saw of them. I was starting to write more, on the days I wasn't working with dad I wrote. Filling notebooks and napkins with children's stories or fictitious love letters. I quit working with dad and sold neck ties to men with dry necks and damp pockets. That didn't last long and in the next few years I tried out many jobs. Always leaving after getting to comfortable of just the lack of interest. I cut trees, I sold pets, dug graves, sold magazines and was the only guy to ever bar-tend in the next town sober. During all this I wrote and mailed off Three-hundred and seventy-five children's stories. In which seventeen got published under the pseudo name Thomas Brauty. I didn't receive much money but it was enough to put away for old age (it gets my bolonga and stale saltines) also nobody(minus the kids) knew I wrote them. I told dad in the note that I wrote on his funeral, i'm sure he would have been proud. I was twenty-three when mom fell victim to "old age" she wore a blue dress and even on her death bed her fingers were wrinkled from the washing of people who were long gone. I was somewhat seeing a gal when mama died. After the service she made the comment that blue wasn't my mom's color. That was the eleventh time in my life where that brutally honest part of me got his way. I didn't tell the kids what I told her. And I never plan on repeating those words ever again. Exactly One-hundred and four days after mama died dad sat in his chair. Lit his pipe with the cheapest tobacco he could find. Drank two fingers of thirty year scotch. Opened the paper and died. That was the day I started to smoke a pipe, never read the paper again and put on my suit for the last time..
Some call me bitter and others don't call me at all, I've slipped between the floorboards in their minds and that's just fine by me. But I think all to often my lack of interest in people and their going ons has been misunderstood as "being bitter/hateful a mean old hermit" ah hell..maybe I am. But don't get me wrong I don't hate every person who comes strolling by my house(but I must say for one to "stroll by my house" one must abandon his or her vehicle. Trek in woods that even deer get lost in and avoid old mine-shafts that i've "forgotten" to mark off) there are the occasional fellas whom I don't mind sharing shade with and there's been a few lady folk who stuck by me for a bit. no longer than three months. I guess ladies get bored with the same ole thing everyday, beats me. There's also two youngins that i've taken a liken to. Brother and sister. The sister acts more like the boy, always got her finger in something and blood on her knees. She constantly reminds me that i'm alright by myself: "You know, ain't nothing wrong with a man who sticks to himself, if I was a man i'd stick to myself" she always followed that up with a long stare at my boots, a subtle grin and a quick spit onto my porch. Then she'd be off the poke at my ole goat or see what I had to eat "All you eat is bolonga and stale saltines!!" she said that every time..she's consistent. I liked that, hell it's one of few things I can actually respect. Now the young boy..men say i'm quiet, even my mother said so. But this boy beats all you've seen. If he didn't have such a haunting presence about him you'd forget he was there. When they first stumbled on my house she ran her mouth a mile a minute. Asking me everything from how many hairs I think I got to what I thought was really in the sky besides the clouds and good parents. But the boy he just sat in the corner picking at his britches and winding the dial on an old broken watch. The more they came around the more comfortable he became, he brought me stories he had wrote in school or the old watches he found. He gave me one for my birthday. Well it wasn't my birthday. "Here, I want you to have this. It don't work or anything but you've been around for a while and I assume you've had a few birthdays so think of this as a make-up gift." he handed over a bulky fake gold watch with "To Pete, my strong strong man" engraved on the back. My names not Pete and i'm sure as hell ain't strong. The boy knows that. at least I think he does. I wore it for a few months, I knew it didn't work but I caught myself checking it anyways. Fortunately I had no need for time. still don't. doubt I ever will. Eventually the band broke so I stuck it in my pocket and that's where it's slept ever since. The day I get buried I'll have that watch in my pocket unless some dimwit rummages around in my pockets and steals it. Stealing from the dead, now that's something that ought to make folk lose sleep at night (I don't) stealing in general disgusts me, mainly because i've never truly wanted to own something I didn't already have or knew would come in due time.
When the boy first came around he wore "special occasion" pants, now everyday, he wears those same ole "watching the world pass by" pants. Maybe I should tell him that just because I find "special occasion pants" absurd doesn't mean there's anything wrong with them. It'd break my heart to know the boy passed up life just to be like me. I've never once hated myself. But i've also never wished this life upon anyone else. The boy and girl always came together and outside the view of my porch and yard I didn't know what their lives were like. I never asked. Well I did once, but I didn't ask them. I asked old Maney, he called me a "pervert" and said he had half the mind to tell their folks I was asking about 'em. "Old man Maney! you're right about one thing, you do got half a mind. Now stop sucking air around me before I burn this store down." That's what a part of me wanted to say, that part never gets what he wants. Instead I bought my bolonga and stale saltines for half the price not bothering with friendly salutations or bonding farewells. A man like me shouldn't ask questions, it's not because i'm undeserving of an answer. It's just that when I really think about it..I either already know the answer or i've went this long without knowing and i've been doing just fine. Occasionally the kids will bring me a left-over plate of roast and taters, sometimes even a jelly biscuit. I feed the roast to my goat when they leave, I love roast..well I used to but a man becomes accustom to a certain diet and adding change upsets my stomach. I eat the taters though, the kids watch and you can tell they feel accomplished. On the days they bring biscuits I act extra stuffed from my taters and insist they eat the biscuit. I'm sure they know i'm not stuffed and i'm sure they know I feed their mama's roast to my goat. But it's our routine. It's consistent and it's safe.
Now about my goat, she's a good goat. Of course I have nothing to base this opinion off of but I still like to think she's a good goat. I got her when she was no bigger than a fat ole baby, I found her father with his head stuck in a fence, the breath from his lungs long gone and she was gnawing on a root half expecting him to wake up. or hell I don't know that, she probably knew what was going on. I never named her, the kids call her anne. I call her goat and i'm sure she calls me: dad, roast man or David(that's not my name but she heard it repeadatly one night when I felt real good and sang an old church song about David and Bathsheba at the top of my lungs) or for all I know she don't call me anything. And that's just fine by me. I know my name, although I forget it sometimes. Not on purpose..I just lose track of words.
In the children's eyes I had always been the man sitting on the porch in his "watching the world go by pants" who forgot the use of a razor and owned a goat. But I assured them that I was their age once. Telling them brief stories of my childhood and about growing up. I told them I was an only child, I was on purpose. I hear so many people say their kids was an accident. "an accident?! did they just fall out of your wife?" that's what a part of me wants to say, but that part doesn't say very much. My parents promised me I was on purpose. Mom cleaned for elderly folks around town and dad knew everyone's secretes. He was the garbage man. When I was too young to remember I laid at my mothers ankles while she washed clothes, the water was dripping on me. Mama said that's why i'm such an old soul(now i'm actually an old soul who couldn't stop himself from pissing the bed if his life depended on it..who knows maybe one day it will.) She'd say all the water dripping from those old folks clothes must've got in my soul and aged me real fast. She sang and read to me, songs she made up and words she read off of anything she could find. I learned how to read at an early age, I'd read anything and i'd read it carefully,slowly and close. So close that mama would slap my head "ruin your eyes doing that!!" I listened. That was my only fear growing up. To lose my eyesight and never be able to read. Forced to only hear what people had to say for the rest of my life, even back then what folks had to say did me no good. I'd been in school for years till one day it burnt down, by that time I had found myself..well somewhat, I recreated myself in works of fiction and lined my pockets with poetry and prose and only let my mom and dad see the true me. Thirty-seven days after the school burned down moms sister-my aunt-moved in. She took kindly to drinking and making eyes at anything that walked by. She died a year later, why? i'm not sure. The police came by a lot after the funeral, constantly asking questions and requesting to speak in private. Dad gave them a shoebox of hers one day and that was the last I saw of them. I was starting to write more, on the days I wasn't working with dad I wrote. Filling notebooks and napkins with children's stories or fictitious love letters. I quit working with dad and sold neck ties to men with dry necks and damp pockets. That didn't last long and in the next few years I tried out many jobs. Always leaving after getting to comfortable of just the lack of interest. I cut trees, I sold pets, dug graves, sold magazines and was the only guy to ever bar-tend in the next town sober. During all this I wrote and mailed off Three-hundred and seventy-five children's stories. In which seventeen got published under the pseudo name Thomas Brauty. I didn't receive much money but it was enough to put away for old age (it gets my bolonga and stale saltines) also nobody(minus the kids) knew I wrote them. I told dad in the note that I wrote on his funeral, i'm sure he would have been proud. I was twenty-three when mom fell victim to "old age" she wore a blue dress and even on her death bed her fingers were wrinkled from the washing of people who were long gone. I was somewhat seeing a gal when mama died. After the service she made the comment that blue wasn't my mom's color. That was the eleventh time in my life where that brutally honest part of me got his way. I didn't tell the kids what I told her. And I never plan on repeating those words ever again. Exactly One-hundred and four days after mama died dad sat in his chair. Lit his pipe with the cheapest tobacco he could find. Drank two fingers of thirty year scotch. Opened the paper and died. That was the day I started to smoke a pipe, never read the paper again and put on my suit for the last time..
