l i f e
ovipositor
contributions
christopher@30seconds.org
The fall air was crisp and brittle as dried white chicken bones the day I climbed the steps to Clyde's shanty on the outskirts of Chapel Hill. I remember those steps, smooth as drift wood washed up by the sea, half-penny nails straining to work themselves out of the wood they'd been struck in to long, long ago. This particular day looked like rain, but the trees were calm and the way the air went deep into my lungs without force suggested otherwise. It just looked like rain.
Matter of fact it always looked like rain when I went to Clyde's, but this being the first time I wouldn't know that yet.
I stood on the porch and leaned for a minute on one weak columm, the chipping paint flaking off on my leather jacket while I decided if what I was about to do was very smart or not. I decided that if it wasn't smart it was at the very least worth while and I pulled on the screen door. Its rusty hinge gave way easily, a lot of folks came to see Clyde, but the note on the door told us all we weren't welcome.
Go Away!
A very simple cardboard box lid was slide into the frame of the door. Go Away...sorry Clyde, not today. Not this time. I knocked. Silence. I shuffled my feet, blew on my hands and knocked again. Muffled footsteps.
"Can ya read?" came the voice from inside.
I was quiet. Fearful actually. I'd never heard the voice of Clyde Jones before.
"I said can ya read?" more urgent this time. Stronger.
"Yeah, I can read Clyde."
"Then get the hell outta my yard..." and the footsteps started to trail away.
"I think I got something you want Clyde." I knew I did. I knew he collected stuff for his work. I knew he couldn't buy what I had to offer and I also knew he didn't have the money to buy it with. But he needed it. His work needed it. And from what I'd heard Clyde was his work. And from what I'd seen Clyde was a master...
goodnight 1.14.98
