IX: Basement Potluck

You won't believe what happened this morning.

I woke up early and smoked my way through a Johnny Cash album and some scrambled eggs. Then, after closing my eyes and confronting the sad, massive boredom that sometimes blankets this world, I decided to go to church.

"Matthew Wilkinson," I heard Mrs. Scurfield say from behind me as I stood on the church steps after the sermon and songs.

"Hello," I replied, turning around.

Small talk. Then: "Drunk at the crooked trees. Must've been quite a time." She was smiling and inquisitive.

I can’t remember exactly what she said next, but the long and the short of it is that she goes to the trees a lot, and she said she’d like some company next time she goes.

“Okay,” I replied. “Yeah. Anytime.”

After church I had coffee and deviled eggs in the basement while the pastor’s ten year old son Jacob earnestly told me about a UFO that landed near Hafford last year. He wrote a link on my napkin. Here.

I'll tell you one thing: I don't believe in UFOs.