Spitball Army

8/1/11. Faded sign beside the greasy spoon: 50 Years of Quality Food and Service. On the door, a sticker: Serving You Since 1938.

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Two caller I.D. messages on my phone tonight: one from “Obama,” one from “Unknown.” Why doesn’t the third-party candidate call me?

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7/4/11: Rain and hail storms roar through the South, squelching mid-day festivities with a natural assertion of Malickian primacy.

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He offered to share his garden harvest with her. She, catching neighborly contagion, dug up his plants and gave them to a friend.

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We watch the garden vigilantly, waiting for red on tomatoes and yellow on banana peppers. The bugs wait, too: pacing on leaves.

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The promise of a fledgling’s life of flight, extinguished in the crook of a bamboo stem: struggle, entrapment, exhaustion, death. (BlackBerry photo: spitballarmy.com)

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Sister and I meet in my garden. Tomorrow is my weekly fertilizing day. “The Feast of All Plants,” I say. She chuckles, like a nun.

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Aisle 14. Walk toward the display of security lights. As you pass, they light your profile. Pause. Turn. Vamp for the paparazzi.

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On break, discussion has veered to the predicted May 21 end times. “I won’t hear Gabriel’s trumpet,” she says. “I’m tone deaf.”

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He carts a framed door to the hardware store returns desk. Wrong size? No. “It doesn’t fit the hole my wife measured,” he says.

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