Why are these children not in school?
The table of super-white, well-dressed to the point of looking like an ad, would have a hard time getting arrested if they were wielding machetes are at the table adjacent mine.
They look like a cult.
Karen and Becky look over at me. I feel like an amateur still-life painting that didn’t even make it to The Member’s Gallery.
Karen looks like she knows that she’s better than me, than the baristas behind the counter.
She finds us all mildly annoying, but she’s doing her best to maintain an expected level of decorum.  
Little Reed has a necktie on.
He looks like a Reed. Freckles. He’s a ginger, like his dad. Pastor Kyle.
That’s no *******. I’ve overheard that Daddy-O really is a pastor somewhere.
I never figured out where. It’s not really important, is it?
However, I still want to know why Reed and little Becky aren’t in school.
I want to know.
I won’t ask.
But, still…
Reed’s tie is spectacular.
It goes with his shirt beautifully.
The Windsor knot is impeccable.
I bet Reed has no idea how to tie a Windsor knot.
I know I don’t.

These people are beautiful monsters.
And, they are likely perfectly harmless,
Innocuous.

I bet they vote.
Which makes them less so.

They are every cliche.

The ladies glance in my direction now and then.
They’re wondering what I’m doing.
What I’m writing in this book.

The desire to strike up a conversation is huge.
I remain silent,
observant.

I want to ask Becky and Reed if they can diagram this sentence.
I won’t ask though.

I have to get out of here.
I feel like I’m in the presence
of America’s Greatness that few American’s
are actually privy to.

It smells like juniper.
Gin martinis or with tonic,
used to swallow secret extra Xanax tabs.
or
money used to buy hookers.

(paid out of the collection plate.)


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-JBClaywell
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