The two farmers I thought were family were
watching me as I was watching them. Some strange
Route 6 store named Piggly Market or something,
nearing milk and bread, nearing eggs and coffee, nearing
cigarettes. They all were there, and those two took it in.
Everyone looked up as I entered, of course - same old
crap like a Bob Seger song. Those two, I'd swear were
siblings setting out to do each other.
At the entry, some lonely beagle was struggling for my
attention, on a rope that neared extension as he wiggled.
All good things like this always come together : the local
gun, the cop with the ill-fitting suit, his twisted Dodge
Avenger Police Special looking mad as hell through the
trees. It too seemed looking at me, and the dirty-messed
girl standing by the counter in twenty-day old jeans.
'I bet you'd think to just park anywhere, mister.' Addressed
me so, she did. 'No, no,' I said, 'I parked where it said open.'
That seemed to satisfy the bunch, even the languished cop,
of whom the others greeted the morning and noted, 'Morewick'.
Maybe it was 'morning, Rick.' I really couldn't tell. A thought
flashed in my head of something to say, but I didn't say it
because I couldn't back it up - 'It ain't no sin to be alive.'