According to statistical data, Earl was off the hook–he was from the tenth most obscure state in the nation. That, in itself, was justification for leaving Christmas lights up year round.
Things hadn’t been the same, since Brother Dudley, down at the church, died. Earl held on to beliefs; that someday, things would get better–but, they never did.
Heavy dew, dripped in mini-rainstorms, under long-leafed pines. Unfiltered anger came out in waves.
“Sumbitch, I don’t think I’m hip enough for this crowd,” Earl said, as he departed. “I’m going back to the trailer park–cracking open a six-pack. If this damned truck don’t start; I’m gonna’ shoot it.”
After the infamous, “Fluffy Buffalo” potato chip kerfuffle, and pinochle debacle at the VFW–Earl’s patience was worn thin. He’d apologized–wasn’t sure what for. Somebody else started the whole thing–he got the blame.
So, Hallelujah! I’m their bum, bum. What else was new? It’ll be somebody else, next time. Wrong place, wrong time–he figured. When would Fred and crew, forget about the unfortunate event? It was last October–for Cripe’s sake.
Bob “the biker,” pedaled his way to work. “Movin’ Mary,” was on her front stoop, talking with neighbor, Marge. Marge, talked with her hands. Mary shifted, from one foot, to the other, as she talked; it was quite a picture.
Stan, the resident, recluse–aka, “the talker,” peered out from behind living room curtains, across the street. Could he be missing out on something?
Earl pulled down the visor to block the blinding sun. Several scratch-off lottery tickets, fell to the floor. If Earl couldn’t see the sunrise everyday–he may as well have been in jail. Earl parked, held the storm door with his foot; opened the front door.
He collapsed on the living room sofa–switched on the television. Temptations resumed from the day before. Earl continued the life, of someone, voted, least unlikely, to succeed.