A Short Four

I remember best when we appeared together at the show. You in your yellow tee-shirt and me in my tattered vest. We walked briskly from the parking lot as we shuffled to maintain balance. The watch usually in your back pocket had apparently been neglected when we met with Juan Carlos in the attic only days previous. The basket that we brought our food in was confiscated by the local authority; at the time Lt. James Kinney. He had several formulas that he used in a decision making process as to whether or not we would be punished. No outside opinions were allowed. A few grandparents organized a coalition to bring out the truth. Your grandparents were involved. The show allowed us to release our fury into the air. One man ate fire on the roof. Nobody was burned. Finally our appearance had meant something to everyone. We proceeded to purchase some soda and tickets, then pick up younger girls and drive them to get beer. They agreed not to tell Kinney. Then they laughed at us and threw $5 on the ground at our feet. It didn’t cover the cost of the beer, but served us right. That night we sat in the side grass and shook our heads in dismay. The night finally ended with a low-five and a empty promise to “do all this crazy shit again sometime.” I would never hear from you again, this I predicted correctly.