Swear to God if this old man doesn’t get under my skin. He calls mid-morning, freezing cold outside, to tell me he’s standing in his garden and looking at “this here cabbage” that he thinks I might like to see.
What am I going to do: say no, some other time, I’ve finally gotten back into the stream and the words are tumbling over themselves like the crazy turkeys outside, laying on their backs to scratch themselves and kicking up acorns and leaf mold into the air, that I finally get it that Grace fears commitment and Jess fears loss, and that Rory wears long sleeve shirts and buttoned-up collars to hide his florid tattoos, cuttings, body modifications and the marks of suspension, and that Grace’s roommate is an architect who thinks she was a member of a Maori tribe in a past life and has a few tats of her own?
I say, come on over, Harold. Buck’s in the shower getting ready for a dental appointment, but I’ll make some fresh coffee.
Harold came to the door thirty minutes later with this Godzilla cabbage, a sack full of baby broccoli from his garden, and the last two days’ worth of newspapers he found in our drive-way.
He’s put on another ten pounds over Christmas, looks like. Got to be hell on his twin hernias.