1955 (part one)
A tar blister, black and shiny, bloomed from the wooden crevice of a joint in the short bridge, close to Aran’s right foot. The glisten of sun on the tar caught his eye. Aran shifted his sneaker away. His grandmother would not want the tar in the house. The bridge, lengths of wood as thick as railroad ties and darkened with creosote, joined the rusted bones of an iron trestle that crossed the wider gully of the creek more than the creek itself, spanning the red gouge between a corn field and a pasture.
“Aw, shoot!”
His voice was muffled by the dense quiet. Even his breath was smothered by the sun itself. Everything had changed. Nothing ever stayed the same long enough.
Aran stood at the middle of the bridge, elbows planted on top of the side rail, his palms clasped to each…
This is what I remember.
But someone else could say, “I know that place. You’ve got the names all wrong.”
I’d have to tell them that they’re mistaken. In any case, I don’t remember them being there.
They might answer, “The doorway was on the left. That woman was a blonde.”
I’d have to remind them that they were standing at a different angle, and the lighting was not as good.
This all happened before mobsters replaced cowboys at the movies, and long before government Indians and stock market brokers took over the business of gambling. I was a nobody then, the same as I am now, only then I was a nobody with promise. The unsecured credit of my youth opened doors which have since been securely locked. Reflecting on that time now, I am aware of the forgotten order of things. We all…
Look. I’ll tell you the story. But you have to appreciate the situation first.
You know, I used to say it all the time. People aren’t any better than they have to be. And let’s get this much straight. It’s still true. With most people.
The golden rule was stolen a long time ago and melted down to make pinky rings for crud who like to use other people for sport.
Crud comes in all flavors.
Every guy who gets soft on a gal wants to think she’s better than he is—wants her to be the true thing. But women are no better than men. They have a little less muscle, so they make up for it in other ways.
Your mother was not a saint. She married your father. Isn’t that proof enough? If she hadn’t married him, that would have made her smarter,…
