Predictably, as we began our way towards Aptos that Saturday, Tom Waits yelled road gravel and broken down dreams, as that is his role. At the precise moment that a yellow Corvette passed us, he was roaring about tearing out the buckets from a red Corvette, and the numbers screamed and cheered in ecstatic acknowledgement that I noticed. Game on. The address number was 31; that many years ago I was discharged from Uncle Sam’s Murder Club as an entry-level medical separation on September sixteenth. Some small voice said, “Thanks for showing up and leaving the party early, here’s the sum we agreed upon …” The lizard, barely visible in the dim light of the overcast sky, turned its head almost imperceptibly towards the towering pine at its left, then scurried right into the secure confines of the bushes. Exhaling the dead air of decades of tension, wondering no longer if I was WHERE I was supposed to be, I was finally ready to BE there. But, the time for action had long since passed, and the others had all gone on living their lives as if he had never been more than wind and dry leaves and echoes of yelling. “You were made on Halloween/ Of tricks and treats, it’s true/ But now the candy’s GMO/ And so, my child, are you …”
—robbie edmonds
Flommist Robbie Edmonds would love to sit down with you and discuss his theories of mind-swapping and time travel, but it appears as if he, as his cat, just left to stop himself from doing so … AGAIN! Copyright © 2017 Robbie Edmonds.
PLEASE SUPPORT FLOMM
TIPS + DONATIONS DISCREETLY ACCEPTED