I’ve had too much. Shivering by the dumpster. A little whiskey is the only cothamore we’re likely to get, pa always said. Too much is a hole in the roof.
My pa was always waiting on something or somebody under a big hole in his roof. Tugged his forelock and averted his bleary eyes like a peasant for ward heeler or bank teller alike. I thought I’d be a man of action. Not waiting on anything, or anybody. There’d be cannonfire and blood running hot and a furnace of action at all times. But here I am hanging at a dumpster at two AM like any rain dog.
Some men have to make up their minds and screw up their courage time and time again. I don’t get it. With me it was a switch you throw and that’s that. You decide to go this way or that and the road rambles off into the distance but you’ll never see that fork again. What’s the point in trying to back up and read the signs after you’ve blown through the red light in the first place? But the nervous nellies are my bosses, still. I would have stayed at the shipyard and blasted rust forever if I wanted that.
The car will come when my tallow is good and frozen and we’ll roll on over to Mehfeh and take out the trash. No courage needed. Pa told me, “Do nothing for pity. Do nothing for love.” The bundle in the trunk has to go into the Mystic. Why wait?