Spitball Army

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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The #balloonboy episode now seems to equal that plastic bag from American Beauty in cultural relevance – empty and drifting away.

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He wiped-out at the base of the slope, yet insisted on one more run. By the time our lift made the summit, he’d forgotten my name.

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First time behind the wheel? In a yellow 1956 Jeep Willys. First auto accident I had? That same Jeep Willys. Casualty? A woodpile.

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As we approached Weeks Bridge, she broke away, racing to the span’s apex. I slogged, lead-footed, panting and aflush, to meet her.

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