Boo
Boo would drink six beers and practice tricks until punch-in time. Invent an eternal detective armed with throwing star lashes, put her on the trail of a fugitive—he'd run ‘til the cliff dropped or the blade sliced his neck. Or he’d just repeat something, like Marilyn, Marilyn, and I suppose go through every image ‘til there were no more—then she’d be gone, and that was another trick. I’d be playing rummy while he vocalized—he’d start from scratch: name the fluid, name the bubbles, the permeating feeling. Make a sound to signify mind-travel to a ceiling fan, microwave color-scraps as they originate in linoleum and travel into the ragged weeds colonizing the broken joints of what we called our office. He hadn't even clocked in. J ust going on with words I didn’t even know, articulating concepts I'd probably never learn. He seemed both happy and a little frightened. Frightened by happiness maybe.