Spitball Army

Snaps from the birthday party: Jack drinking whiskey; Jack standing on his head; Jack flipping off the camera; Jack wearing cake.

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In lieu of a 7th birthday party, we’ve arranged for Sister Augustine Mary to telephone you and play “Las Mañanitas” on her trumpet.

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We dance to “Brown Sugar”: high, drunk, sweaty. Wow, you really feel the music, she says. I plant a sloppy kiss on her and pass out.

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Alone, he pantomimed “Dominique” full-bore, mimicking French words he didn’t know. Song over, he turned: his parents stood agape.

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She pronounced the phrase as “swav and de-boner,” as if the intent garbling of the words lent her hipster sophistication.

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Cost of four sodas at movie snack bar: $27. Collapsible water bottles filled at bubbler: free. Anarchic satisfaction: priceless.

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Assessment: Carries pad and pen everywhere. Cuffs buttoned at wrists, always. Smirks instead of smiling. Crosses legs like a girl.

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Today was a quiet day. Work was alright. It was cold, just like yesterday. It might snow Friday. But maybe not. Cold, either way.

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Them shoes she sent got here all right. But a man was on the same train as the shoes; he come here to relieve me so I got booted. – Written by my grandfather, Booker Esker Jones, in a 7 August 1931 letter to my grandmother, Elon Mae Hardin, and only slightly paraphrased by me.

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BZZZT! Wake. Teeth. Cats. Swim. Tea. News. Morning constitutional. Bathe. Clothes. Keys. Work. Desk. Sit. Q u i e t.

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