Drinking on my lawn last evening, a truck passed by. I recognized the boys inside.
"Faggot!" they shouted, and spun away laughing.
Even when I was one I never cared for teenage Saskatchewan boys.
"Those fuckers," said Clarke, stepping out of his house shirtless. I laughed. He used to be a violent guy, I think. Like once he told me if anyone ever stole his chainsaw he'd bust their kneecaps. I smiled and nodded in agreement, but got the feeling he wasn't kidding at all. "I'd take a wrench," he said, motioning toward his garage, "and I'd hit them right there." His finger rested on the spot where shin becomes knee.
"Jesus, Clarke."
He looked at me. "Sorry. But that is what I'd do."
5 comments:
I sorta like Clarke.
I know some people in town have a bit of a hard time with him (Mrs. Scurfield just shakes her head when I mention him), but I get a lot of pleasure from Clarke's company. And he's a good friend and neighbour.
All this to say, I'm glad you sorta like him.
I understand your character now - who he is. Clarke is wonderful, by the way.
There is a guy here, you should meet. He would fit into hafford well. He might like to meet clarke, and convince him to read old paperback sci-fi novels (the real sci-fi's).
Clarke is like this guy - he just has a hard time in the world so he seems weird. But really, he is a nice guy who just doesn't totally get how "it" is.
He is dependent on the people around him, who make him either weirder or less ....weirder. He doesn't like having steak two nights in a row, he likes potpourri, he will never buy a reusable waterbottle.
I'd like to meet him. What's his name?
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