Tuesday, April 4, 2017

lives of quiet desperation slowly pressing us into the bygone dirt

I was jawing with J.L. down at the self-serve station, trying not to spray fuel all over the rear quarter panel. You see, that J.L. is a cut-up. At once J.L. looked at me and said right serious, "did you trade a walk-on role in a war for a lead-role in a cage?"

He talks such mess all the time. You just have to laugh and go on about your business, while he spits chaw-juice into your dusty footprints. Grizzled old piece of somebody, that J.L. There are many great old ones walking around among us, often not tipping us off to their greatness. It is the psychological process of individuation, which is ongoing, with so many not attaining anything like perfection of the personality until old age.

And J.L. is one of those great old ones. It boggles the mind to think of the things those old boys have seen in their lives, and yet they come through all the better, without safe rooms or written rules of etiquette. Last of the Greatest Generation. Meanwhile, over here the pizza man knocks five minutes late and we're hiding in the panic room.

Bad show, pizza man. Try that at J.L.'s house and see what you get for your trouble. Or the time J.L. flew a crop-duster. He chased some poor old sharecropper under an old oak tree in the middle of a big old field. That's J.L. Anything for a lark. Surprised, perhaps none moreso than himself, that he survived his wild young days to become the well-adjusted, lovable old bird he is today.

God bless his eyes.

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