Tired of lying in the sunshine
Staying home to watch the rain
You are young and life is long
And there is time to kill today
This is what’s playing while I jumble around trying on and trying to take off my newly assembled Costumes d’Halloween (ハロウィーンの衣装) and everything between—ever since I got home from work, pet the bunny’s nose for some minutes to relax, and treated my arm and washed off. I came upstairs and offloaded, sent a text off to my darling Michele, who might be able to hang out, if the State rugby team doesn’t go to the weight room after practice. I gently took the snake around, and I think maybe she will warm to me. Associating with a grown corn snake is one of the most mind expanding things I’ve done lately. I just do not know what she is thinking. I can guess, but is it good? By rule of definitions, probably not so.
And so I had hiked a skirt on over blue jeans, pulled on a pair of my mother’s boots (without socks), and struggled into one of a dozen plaid flannelesques, tied Victoria’s, Miss Red’s, stars and stripes bandanna at my throat, forgot my cowgirl hat—it’ll be more use outdoors, anyway—and loaded my gun to go show my dad.
He was coming up the stairs! I jumped out in front of the staircase to block the path of a laundry-loaded Dad and pointed my six-shooter pistol square at the chest. Seeing how, later, the pistol turned out to fire its rubber band projectiles a little north over the sights, I’d have probably exploded his face off from my position. “Freeze and hold them high!” I cried, firing off some warning pantomimes.
He froze, stared up for a minute, and, with a wry twist, “You don’t ever point a gun at a person unless you intend to shoot them.”
“Oh, I intend to shoot you,” I.
“I don’t want you pointing that at people on the street. You never know who’s packing in a purse or a pocket. I do not want you shooting anybody.”
“I’m not going to shoot anybody! I’m just going to shoot you, yeah?”
More anti bombdy-firey-heat-my-shotgun! talk from Pop—It’s just a six shooter—and, later,
“Careful you don’t shoot yourself in the knee, why doncha?”
So I took out my pistol to shoot myself in the knee and, explaining that nothing could be worse from here on out, finally earned a smile.
I step up to the pull-up bar in my closet door for a proper stretch, and, as I feel the space between my vertebrae expand,
by Pink Floyd rings out clear as a stadium from my desktop computer. Boom. That’s the moment.