We all admired Stevie Wilkins.
As our group approached the dreaded four-oh, we had all embraced the great wheel of life and found our little cogs. We had lawyers, a senior partner in a well to do accounting firm, a realtor who seemed impervious to the whims of the economy, and even a big time doctor, little Jimmy Tann, who, admittedly, had left the group and moved out to Chicago. We only heard from him a couple days before Christmas when he sent a group text wishing everyone well. We didn’t really like little Jimmy Tann anymore.
Even I had managed to amount to something, despite my meager BA in history. Tooth and fucking claw, mind you, but I had managed to carve out a niche that kept the wolves from the door and the wine well-stocked on the shelf.
Continue reading ‘The Tree Poacher’
Dad started banging the pots in the mornings. He’d grab a clean one in his big left hand, find a pair of tongs or a stainless steel spoon for his right then hold each tool above his head and beat on. It was the count-off rhythm of a hundred songs: one, two, one-two-three-four! After that intro he’d improvise, turning the half-beat clangs loose through the house, swinging his knees and elbows, marching down the hallway. The banging stopped for a moment every morning when he joined both pan and spoon in one hand, opened our front door, and kicked out the swinging screen. He’d stand there on the porch in his socks, bottom lip tucked up under his teeth, squint into the September sun and start at it again, letting anyone who was around that he was home, that our house was occupied.
Continue reading ‘Open Hearted Dogs, Part 1′