It's 2am, in Arkadelphia, Arkansas. 1994. Two male friends of mine, both gay, are crashed next to me in sleeping bags on the floor in the living room of Papa Hare's two-room assisted living apartment. We're all moving to Portland, Oregon, and we've driven from Clemson, South Carolina that day and are headed out to Amarillo, Texas the next morning. Papa Hare is about 88 years old.
Papa Hare drops down into his Lazy Boy recliner and asks, "Now you kids don't mind if I watch a little TV do you?" We mumble, "No." He clicks on The Wheel of Fortune. The volume is what you'd expect it to be for an Octogenarian. The next morning, bleary-eyed, we drink coffee with Papa Hare. He turns to the stove to get bacon, eggs, or sausage out of a pan. As he turns around, he's on fire. Or rather, the towel he's using as an oven mitt is on fire. I quickly put it out before he realizes what's happened.
After breakfast, I take a quick shower. As I come out of the bathroom, I hear him ask my friends, "Now which one of you is sweet on Ginny?"
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment