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Squim
John was a Vietnam veteran machine gunner from Syracuse who had after the war relocated to Squim, Washington, and was now hitchhiking I-!0 on his way to Florida to surprise his Mom and Dad on their fiftieth wedding anniversary.
In Squim, John could often be found at one of the four bars located there and on one night may have witnessed Raymond Carver suffering from brain tumors order a drink which he left untouched because in his confused tumorous state he still had the presence of mind to call Tess Gallagher to confess the deed--he had long before become a non-drinker--and she told him to get in the car and come home, to Port Angeles.
John would get as far as Mississippi before meeting a woman at a truck stop who mistook him for the deceased Richard Brautigan, and upon reading the work of his new identity which did sit prominently on the bedside table at the woman's trailer home he thought--good deal, I'll be this for awhile.
Two Cousins3/14/2000
You know the both of them, the two cousins, one of which came down that street you are familiar with but he did not get his ski mask on quick enough, so the other cousin recognized him, and by doing so kept himself from being shot at, yesterday.
The Rocheblave house is gutted, naked down to its studs and rafters, but I am haggling hard with trash haulers which in this economy is a waste of time because all of us blue collars have the same sentiment, fuck it, I have plenty of work, I ain't cutting you no ($) slack. So no trash whatsoever has been hauled away from the property. I won't save any real big money with my haggling but at least I can firmly establish myself as a cheap bastard so the nickle and dimers don't kill me with their pleas for mercy. I know what its like to be imagined rich and privileged. Which in a sense I am, but look at my printout recently received from the Social Security Administration, with my twenty year work history spelled out, and the "rich" part would be a hard sell.
And after some of that haggling I enter the Dumaine property to see some guy in the corner over by the Esnard Villa side pissing against the fence so I confront him, don't know him, he stops what he's doing, can't be pissing, he didn't shake anything, or put anything back in his pants. I catch the cup of his hand, see the weed laying loosely across the paper. Shelton, and Stink, and Kevin's brother are playing dominoes.
"What are you doing?" And then I see the weed. "No fucking indeed. No, no, no, you can't do that here. What the fuck are you doing?" Lame duck or no, I have a mandated policy on this property which allows almost anyone to hang freely on this porch as long as they don't break laws. I have said recently to a porch gathering of key players that I would back them up against a shakedown as long as they don't hustle from, or smoke weed on, this property. I do not hide the fact from anyone, child or otherwise, that I myself smoke the occasional weed, but my point to everyone is that you will rarely, if ever, see me smoking it. Carelessness in my past has led to some nearly very fucked up consequences. I could almost be a Rebublican I am so conservative these days. But not a compassionate one.
The dude, the one I've never seen before looks flustered, and defiant, as he crosses the line off property.
"Eric!?" I yell, pleading the question mark.
"My bad, Mr. Jim, I told him not to," he says, gathering himself up to leave.
Shelton, ready for my wrath, says, " I couldn't do anything."
I did not respond to that, but I know what he means.
Last Friday Eddie Green hit a three pointer at the buzzer to beat Hammond, the number two ranked team in the state, by one point, and by doing so helped advance his team, the St. Augustine Purple Knights, to the final four in state playoff basketball action, in Lafayette. Hammond is trying to have St. Aug disqualified because one of it's bench warmers might be an ineligible player. The issue goes before some sort of tribunal tomorrow (today for most of you), and if St. Aug is not disqualified, Slim going to Lafayette for Thursday nights' game.