I’d just learned to ride a bike, but I didn't own one. I remember, then, the country had kinder eyes and softer hands. A pack of 3-legged dogs came by the house for food once or twice a week. I laughed because the silly mutts often fell over sideways while gobbling scraps from the plastic bowl. I didn’t know what the word ‘cruel' meant.
My dad made me scrub drywall mud buckets from the jobsite, and sell them to the bait shop; 50cents each. All profits went to the house. I’m pretty sure, to some measure, white buckets stole my soul. I watched God slowly go mainstream from a secondhand plaid couch. He used to be so cool.
Most days, my heart would hang out of my back pocket like a nosebleed hanky. I wondered why the same people who loved me in the morning seemed to hate me at night. I could measure their evening moods by the amount of empty beer cans they poured from the tired red cooler. Winston and Budweiser were the only two name brands we could ever seem to afford.
It was a cold Tuesday morning. The sky was on fire. A strange woman was rocking a bundle of old rags by the school bus stop. Her eyes reminded me of burnt out light bulbs. She cooed at it like it was her baby. All the kids pointed and giggled. The truck driver was fooling with his radio. When she stepped onto the cool morning asphalt, I lost my salvation.
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