Spitball Army

Granny Brown, neighborhood grouch, rested a broom on her front porch. Halloween night, we crossed the street to avoid her house.

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The juror came to trial each day dressed in a camouflage jacket. True to the fabric, his disposition could not be discerned.

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The cynical academic donned his Oxford cap and spectacles covered with numbered lines. For one night, he was a graduated cylinder.

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It happened again last night. Violin in hand, he arrives late. The Maestro’s dictate: You’ll be soloing in the Debussy concerto.

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Dawn gig at the coffeehouse. Distracted, steam scalds her hand. A patron enters: “Happy birthday!” Her fingers throb a reply.

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From my yard, I can spy the neighbors’ kitchen. From my landing, their bathroom is visible. From my top step, they all can see me.

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The gym smells of foot fungus. A sloppy white chin smudge decorates the arm curl pad. I scan the room for a clown with big shoes.

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I. Father was born beneath the sway of California palms; in death, he is surrounded by their less majestic South Carolina cousins.

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The strand of coastal asphalt vanished from sight to the north and to the south. Before him, the great sea. Behind him, the past. On Highway 1, Carlsbad/Leucadia, Calfornia. December 1978   (photo: spitballarmy.com)

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Sixty hours after the tetanus shot, he was still feeling light-headed, like a continuous pot buzz without the giddy enjoyment.

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