Dastardly, bastardly: a county-wide ruse to punk-out a tower guard, such as to say, "good shew, Pennsylvania". Cavalcante, the point man, roaming the countryside on holiday, and that, during 9/11, having a holiday absconding non-chalantly down the street, without even so much as a bicycle.
And the national media? Sucked-in the abhorrent vacuum of the news cycle, flotsam, non-sense pieces flying off like tics on a dying beast. It was not unlike the time I was a volunteer in a plague tent, trimming toe nails and stuff, carrying not just buckets of feces, but diseased weird feces with a chemical ambience about it, and the flies buzzing, and us, being told the insects carried the disease too.
Dickinson, with his new-fangled Franco-German shooting iron, had been flinging his arms like a crazy man to keep the nats out of his grill, and me watching this, leaning over with the bucket, awash in that weird smell, like I was doctor of old, observing odor of various bodily "humours".
"Hey, boy" they said, Old Parker. "Get yo ace in their and cut them toenails."
"Yassir" I'd say, "I'll make haste".
They thought I was drunk, like all the time, maybe even getting in the medical chemicals for my drunkard swerve. I mean, they knew, cause like, sensitive eyes, I had, and sleeping bad from night terrors, my eyes usually had a hue.
"He's three sheets in the wind."
"Your mama's bedsheets." I told him, in a bad moment, my unction oriented the wrong way. "I'm gonna buzz the ni**er school."
And then I lost a job, an unpaid volunteer position, even though, I was Johnny-on-the-spot with the feces. Dickinson among the crowd, pearl handles shining at the fringe of his coat, all of them looking in my profound disappointment, too disappointed, surprised, to be particularly angry: they'd remember later, in the pub tents and talk about it among themselves, and find their righteous anger, together, almost in unison.
But still, I wasn't as fubar as that Tower Guard.
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