The Nudists
A group of nudists were traveling to Simmons to be naked near Lake Ivan. Jerry read about it in the paper, or saw it on the news, and he was telling me about it as I tried to parallel park out front of our daughter’s school. We’d been called in because Brigid’s teacher wanted to speak with us. And the principal. And the school counselor.
Trimming
Harper was being declawed, the stainless-steel clippers snipping her nails to pathetic nubs. According to her mother, it was for her own good—Harper couldn’t stop scratching. Lately, she was always scratchy. Plagued by a deep-down itch that seemed to pulse from her bones. Or her organs, maybe. Somewhere her skin wouldn’t let her reach. She was constantly itching herself.
Waxing Nostalgic
Every Monday morning, I passed out boxes of crayons to my first-graders, instructing them to choose a color that reflected their mood and create a picture. They’d spend the next twenty minutes tumbling over each other to grab theirs, then drawing with deep concentration, as I waited for my second cup of coffee to kick in.
Right 10, Left 11, Right 12
My first cellmate was a drifter from Lubbock who got eleven years for pushing a goat off an overpass. He was hitching somewhere east of Dallas—“headed to Atlanta or maybe Charleston, who could know”—and the goat was up on a bridge eating weeds in the concrete.
Sag of the Banner
Do You Read Me?
Nobody tells you when you have kids that you won’t like some of the other little kids. I mean, you really won’t like them. Damien Tuller is one of those kids.