First of all, it’s another day and the sky is so overcast, the color grey is everything that is, but there’s no rain yet. The little town sleeps with one or two lights to signal in the fading darkness. Silence is not golden, for grey reigns, but there is little sound other than the quaking of errant birds, who feast on the night’s leavings. The wrappings of some obscure luncheon repast at my doorstep quantify the presence of these camp robbers, who have grown extremely clever over time. They seem to know when to be where they are and enjoy the fact they’re about, unlike the wild creatures that lurk in the surrounding forest. Those predatory beasts have a delicate charm that makes one forget their ability to maim, mutilate and consume.

Whatever harsh deadliness abounds here, there is yet a singular peace from dwelling hereabouts. We’ve even gone so far as to conduct a writers’ group about it, and hold little soirees wherein we consume the feast of it, the lovely breathlessness of such quiet life that allows no interruption of its daily countenance with acts of largess that would allow a major business to intrude. The only real evidence of the fact that trade might be had is the giant junkpile of the auto parts guy, who does live true to the word that he has parts for sale, and that he does some small repair on the side. Rather he sits in the terminus of junkland, dispensing a random tire or two, a set of old bike clutch levers, some wisdom for ardent high school footballers who don’t mind a little grease on their fair white arms. He doesn’t make a play of it but is what he is, quite content to be gone a day or two and the store don’t run, but collect his grandmother’s barn wood so that his dear one will have her stupendous dining room paneling, or some such. He’s off and doesn’t care the criticism he may gain for having such a pile of parts on the main street in town. We’d have cleaned him up long ago but before him there was a little space cadet running that shop and he turned up gay and ran off with the music teacher, I swear to god.

So the parts store is slightly in mourning still, about that, and this fellow is a goodly sort who has no chip too large on his shoulder, other than his little penguin, who started out paraplegic because she hadn’t woken up yet. It wasn’t a difficult thing for him, but it was for the rest of us because we didn’t ever want to see a person like this child, lying as she was in a stroller built for lunar landings.