Spitball Army

In Alabama, we drive to work on the Korean War Memorial Highway, replete with ruts and debris to simulate the experience.

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Huddled in a jackdaw congregation beneath the overpass, they clutched their spoils in black plastic bags within the ravenous dark.

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Spring comes: I break out the rock & roll CDs. The wintry duets of scratchy gamba and wheezy pump organ go to the bottom shelf.

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I’d sold her dozens of classical CDs, so she invited me. But the duo of scratchy gamba and wheezy pump organ set my teeth on edge.

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The duo of scratchy gamba and wheezy pump organ droned on, proving the rumor to indeed be true: they really could not read music.

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The duo of scratchy gamba and wheezy pump organ was listened to from his bedroom by our benefactor, keeping time on a respirator.

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The walls around this table are adorned with photos of Strom Thurmond and Richard Shelby. My BBQ plate tastes of vinegar and ash.

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He’s lying on the sidewalk, bundled. Asleep? One eye’s open. Should I nudge him? No need: the ambulance is here to haul him away. – Written by @FOFOEOCOCO.

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“Got a schpoon?” he asks the waitress. She shoots him a girn. “A schpoon,” he insists. “Schure,” she tells him, “I got scheveral.” – Written by @Ralphley.

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Shopping secondhand stores for flatware, she shows me how to find good spoons: bend the neck. If it bends, she says, don’t buy it. Leaving small mounds of bent spoons in our wake, we proceed empty-handed to the lead-infused dishware section.

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