Well, here we are. Of course the bus broke down somewhere in East Jesus, the back boondocks of what papa used to call yonder. I oughta save up for some kind of motor of my own, get you and your drawers a good airing out upon my return. How’d you like that, the two of us mocking jays taking Sunday rides in stained bloomers and shirtsleeves? That’d be what mama would call a big IDEA, as in ‘What is?’
I’m thinking on her in the back of this drug store where I’m writing you. Cream soda on my right, half a sandwich on my left, all that’s missing is mom’s cherry pie cooling in the window and pop cursing outside like a hot breeze. Heading south t’ see if Hank Winters still tills in Grover’s Mill. G men said there’s still some arable land round the back of pop’s doomed abode, though precisely where remains a moneyed mystery t’ me. Mom’d say, ‘That Winters is colder than a sleepin’ snake, and two times as cheap.’ Mama wasn’t given t’ explain how she’d come t’ barter with reptiles or their commercial lethargy, so I’m flying blind t’ Hank. Assuming he is still curled up somewhere in Grover’s Mill. The cheapest he could pay for pop’s farm is what it’s worth t’ me.
Been too long since I’ve seen you, and all this agrarian trifling’s got me so worn out I feel like I’m in a hot dream most of the time, with all my actions already in past tense. I dream of you and the city at night like an adscript man, rather than a dustbowl dope washing the bad taste of home down his throat and too far from shore. Your shore. Sea what I mean?