Park At Your Own Risk

My friend Mark once faked a broken leg to get his ex-girlfriend Margo to come back to him. He'd been planning on having a Halloween party at his ranch house, a place with bad pipes and scary bathrooms, and the dishwasher at the Ponderosa he'd been moonlighting at found out and showed up dressed in full Nazi regalia. Jim, the dishwasher in question, collected authentic Nazi crap on his Ponderosa earnings because he didn't have any other expenses given that at forty, he'd never lived anywhere except with his mother. Jim also had Tourettes so I don't think I need to say that being seen with him dressed as a Nazi equalled sexual suicide. Once Mark got rid of him by calling his mother and telling her that he had wrecked his pick-up (lie, web of lies!), he put on his leg immobilizer and found an empty Vicodan prescription from his wisdom teeth, filled it full of Tylenol, and asked me for make-up to make him look like he'd been in a bar fight. I did what I could with some blusher and my eyeliner pencil. He looked more like he'd been in a fight with David Bowie, but it might work if the lights were kept low.

I dressed as Medusa for the party and got drunk enough to forget about the real snake Mark had shot in his dresser drawer the other day. He'd made a huge hole in the floor, but the snake had gotten away. Fuckstick, Mark had yelled, and it most certainly was. Mark tried to milk sympathy from the various party guests, practicing his story so that it would be convincing to Margo. About ten Lone Star beers later, he'd created the entire scenario complete with rednecks from Oklahoma that had kicked his ass in a bar near Jacksboro. The reason -- Mark had insisted on playing George Jones' "Grand Tour" over and over on the jukebox. Margo appeared halfway into the party with her new boyfriend and they were both dressed as themselves, no costumes, no booze, no nothing. She didn't stay long even after hearing Mark's tale of woe. I overheard her tell the new boyfriend that she didn't know why she came, but she sure the hell wasn't staying. Mark got someone to box in her boyfriend's car with his pick-up and then passed out on the couch, mumbling that he'd had too much too drink (too much to drink -- he'd only been at it since noon!). A lot of us put Mark in his bed, everyone telling each other to be careful on account of his broken leg. I didn't have the heart to tell them it wasn't broken. Mark had tried to remember to limp all night, but at one point, he whispered to me that it was hard to be hurt and that his leg was sore from it, that he coudn't wait to walk again without the crutches. They lay beside the couch, and the next morning when he forgot that he wasn't supposed to be able to walk, everyone would wonder at the miracle of healing that had taken place overnight.

Michelle's Spell of the Day

"I don't wear no Stetson, but I'm willing to bet son that I'm a bigger Texan than you are." Steve Earle

A Bar Fight in Jacksboro

a shot of whiskey
a Shinerbock chaser

Benedictions and Maledictions

First published in Floating Holiday:

Poison Ivy

She poured Clorox on her hands
and waited. The itching stopped,
replaced by a burn, then nothing.
Anything was better than the itch!
Soon her hands flashed bright
red, and she couldn't tell where
the rash began and she stopped.
It didn't end there. Her hands
cracked open. She wondered if she'd
changed her future with the new
lines, the possibility making her itch
even more, bleeding and hopeful.