I don't know why I was taken back to this stupid spot in time.
I am three years old. Exactly. It's my birthday. That day I completed three years on earth. But I didn't know that at the time.
I am standing in front of a desk and my mother is chiding me. She wants to know why I scribbled on the desk with crayon.
I look at the scribbles. It's not my work. Not my scribbles. Not my style. Can't she see that?
Here's the thing: These scribbles go back and forth and my scribbles go round and round. Why can't she recognize somebody else's handwriting?
Barry must have done this. But I don't have the capacity to blame someone else. I just stand there stupefied. I don't have the vocabulary to defend myself. I'm being blamed for something I didn't do and there is nothing I can do about that except cry. And it's not worth crying about.
Barry is not there. He is outside as usual playing ditch the little brother. My dad is not there. He's never there. He's a photograph on top of the television set. My sister is not there. Just us two and my mother is not happy with me.
She doesn't want me unhappy. She's already baked a cake for me and I don't even know what a cake is. I don't know what a birthday is. I don't know my birthday cake has three candles. I've never seen a candle. I've never seen a fire up close. I've never had a birthday song sung to me. I have no idea what's in store. All I know is that I did not make that scribble.
It's a dark scene. Low light. Everything is brown. Dark brown. Like Wizard of Oz before they wake up in Oz. The whole thing is depressing. There is a faint tap at the door like this: tap tap tap.
Like a woman tapping gently at the door. Or possibly a man using the paw of a kitten.
"Coming!"
I wake up and twist off the sofa. I put one leg on the floor and stand on it. Then the other. My whole body hurts and my balance is nonexistent. Each step toward the door is achingly slow as I pull together movement on this concrete existence. I expect another knock by impatience but that doesn't happen. And that tells me it could be the mailman already gone. But he knocks louder than this. I expect to be faced with a woman or possibly a young person. I have no time to get dressed. I will say to them, "Behold my magnificent water-drum stomach. You can actually tap a tune on it if you like." I open the door and nobody's there. Just air. And a floppy package on the floor.
Goddamnit. Now I have to bend over and pick it up.
Exercise and I'm not even awake.
I know what it is.
Wranglers jeans. Cowboy cut. Green.
I'll open it later.
With belt loops in front spread apart to accommodate a large cowboy belt buckle. It's a thing with those guys. They're like wrestlers that way. This is their artistic expression. It's an exaggeration that they like to indulge.
Wrangler actually asked the cowboys what they want in a jean and this is what the rodeo cowboys told Wrangler.
"We want front belt loops spread apart to accommodate our glorious silver cowboy buckles."
And Wrangle was all, "Aw, man. Yeah. Right. We can see that. Thank you for your valuable input. This tremendous innovation will set us apart from all other jean makers. It will show that we're serious about our objectives and meeting consumer demand." They were thinking, "We will own the cowboy market, and they will own us."
I need the belt loops spread apart too. To accommodate my hoof-pick belt buckle. Which is also horse-related but not nearly so rough as bucking broncos. Those guys get totally beat up. And they keep coming back for more horse and bull abuse.
They're masochists.
And when you tell them straight up they're insane they just stand there and grin wryly because they know it's the truth. They like being tossed around brutally.
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