Spitball Army

She’s a Heinz 57, running close behind her master through the shop, leaving zigzagged puddles marking each greet-wag-scratch stop.

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The actors fought with such vigor that the rear wall nearly collapsed. Griffith kept cameras rolling, breath held, digits crossed. – Witnessed (and imagined) during a recent screening of The Birth of a Nation.

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I ask for ten bags of the cheap top soil. That’s “less expensive,” I am advised. He’s right: there are still things cheaper than dirt.

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“May I help you?” The old woman shuts her eyes, drops her head in sleep. Her friend hands me a 40W bulb: “Her lights are too dim.”

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Dimes go in a sweetgrass basket; nickels in a glass jar. Now and then, there’s a nice meal out. Meanwhile, it’s noodles and Jell-O.

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30 years on, he disappointingly says to me: I was sure you’d’ve made at least a million by now. But I’d never told him I hadn’t.

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Retired, she now works afternoons at a hardware store, wheelchair-bound behind a register, emergency pennies tucked in her vest.

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“May I help you?” The old woman shuts her eyes, drops her head in sleep. Her friend hands me a 40W bulb: “Her lights are too dim.”

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The Tokyo residents begin migrating to Hiroshima and Nagasaki, fleeing the threat of nuclear fallout under a cloud of cruel irony.

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The Green Line runs under financial Boston; the Red Line pierces academia’s heart. There’s no Yellow here: no timidity or caution.

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