Thursday, April 28, 2005
"A Toe-Headed Protest" Part Two
(For the next few days, I'm going to write a short story for you, so plan on coming back each day to read the rest of the story. Click here to read Part One.)
Joe answered the door shirtless with squinted eyes. Tattoos covered about every inch of his torso and arms. His hair was a mixture of horror and grease.
Bull said, “You never thought you’d see me again, did you?”
Joe swung the door open and said, “Well, you gonna just stand there or are you gonna come in?”
“Man, have a seat. . . . Who you got with you?” Joe said with paranoia in his voice.
“Oh, this here is Badfinger. He works for me,” Bull said, liking the way “he works for me” sounded.”
“Whatcha doing up this way?” Joe asked, with the smoke of his Marlboro exhaling with each word.
“I was wondering if you still got that old pot-bellied pig?”
“You talking about Toe-head?”
“Yeah! . . . I swear I couldn’t think of his name.”
“You want to see him?”
“Sure.”
Joe pulled himself up by the arm of the frayed couch, planting his feet in the shag carpet while saying, “I put him out in the shed this morning after he messed in the kitchen. He knows better than that. He’s rebelling because I put him on a diet. No more Butterfingers. . . . It’s hard on him.” He laughed and motioned toward the back door.
Badfinger spoke up and said, “If you got any of those Butterfingers left over and want to get rid of ‘em, you can give ‘em to me.”
Joe ignored him and opened the back door of the trailer, stepping down the rickety wooden steps that lead into the backyard. Then he turned to Bull and Badfinger and said, “Stay here, while I chain up my dog.”
They stood on the steps while Joe lunged for his pit bull that was headed their way in a dead run. He grabbed the dog by the collar and jerked it over to a chain attached to three cinderblocks positioned behind a doghouse with a tin roof. He fastened the dog to the chain and motioned for them to come ahead.
They stepped into high weeds while the dog barked and snatched at its chain, rearing upon its hind legs. Bull kept one eye on the dog, wondering if those cinderblocks were going to hold. He kept the other eye on what might be hiding under the weeds, thinking, No telling what you might find if you ever mowed it all down. Might find the bones of sacrificed cats.
A Harley-Davidson motorcycle sat underneath an old rusty carport that was corroding at the seams. The Harley was chained to a rod iron column running from a concrete base up to the metal canopy.
They made their way over to the portable shed next to the carport, while Joe cleared his throat. He removed a rusty Master lock and hung it back through the eye of the hinge while the pit bull kept snatching at the chain and barking.
Joe reached in and flipped a light switch that revealed a Confederate flag and a squealing Toe-head full of delight.
www.stofel.com
Joe answered the door shirtless with squinted eyes. Tattoos covered about every inch of his torso and arms. His hair was a mixture of horror and grease.
Bull said, “You never thought you’d see me again, did you?”
Joe swung the door open and said, “Well, you gonna just stand there or are you gonna come in?”
“Man, have a seat. . . . Who you got with you?” Joe said with paranoia in his voice.
“Oh, this here is Badfinger. He works for me,” Bull said, liking the way “he works for me” sounded.”
“Whatcha doing up this way?” Joe asked, with the smoke of his Marlboro exhaling with each word.
“I was wondering if you still got that old pot-bellied pig?”
“You talking about Toe-head?”
“Yeah! . . . I swear I couldn’t think of his name.”
“You want to see him?”
“Sure.”
Joe pulled himself up by the arm of the frayed couch, planting his feet in the shag carpet while saying, “I put him out in the shed this morning after he messed in the kitchen. He knows better than that. He’s rebelling because I put him on a diet. No more Butterfingers. . . . It’s hard on him.” He laughed and motioned toward the back door.
Badfinger spoke up and said, “If you got any of those Butterfingers left over and want to get rid of ‘em, you can give ‘em to me.”
Joe ignored him and opened the back door of the trailer, stepping down the rickety wooden steps that lead into the backyard. Then he turned to Bull and Badfinger and said, “Stay here, while I chain up my dog.”
They stood on the steps while Joe lunged for his pit bull that was headed their way in a dead run. He grabbed the dog by the collar and jerked it over to a chain attached to three cinderblocks positioned behind a doghouse with a tin roof. He fastened the dog to the chain and motioned for them to come ahead.
They stepped into high weeds while the dog barked and snatched at its chain, rearing upon its hind legs. Bull kept one eye on the dog, wondering if those cinderblocks were going to hold. He kept the other eye on what might be hiding under the weeds, thinking, No telling what you might find if you ever mowed it all down. Might find the bones of sacrificed cats.
A Harley-Davidson motorcycle sat underneath an old rusty carport that was corroding at the seams. The Harley was chained to a rod iron column running from a concrete base up to the metal canopy.
They made their way over to the portable shed next to the carport, while Joe cleared his throat. He removed a rusty Master lock and hung it back through the eye of the hinge while the pit bull kept snatching at the chain and barking.
Joe reached in and flipped a light switch that revealed a Confederate flag and a squealing Toe-head full of delight.
www.stofel.com
© 2007 by Robert Stofel