July 17, 2011

Ring of Fools

That night we had a moon almost full, full enough to cast shadows. In other words, it was the perfect night for poker. The game was small: just five of us — one a drunk; two, a guy who had hiked the Appalachian trail before becoming a gentleman farmer; three, an aging pothead called Griswold; four, a chain-smoking woman-chasing sculptor; and five, me, the fool — sitting around my table in Vermont. We’d been playing together for years. So many years that now we were bored and the only thing left to us was gossip.

David plays poker with his Vermont buddies. This depresses him.

Griswold, looking at his cards, started digging. “So I saw you with Rachel walking down School Street the other night.”

The fool laughed, remembering. “Dude, the way you people party up here.”

“Isn’t she 20 years younger than you, David?”

“We went to the bistro for a drink, that’s all.” Continue reading

July 1, 2011

Big Vermont Drive

We were having weather. It delayed my flight to Burlington where I was to begin a summer of quiet reflection and lamentation, and where I would continue to maintain an uneasy relationship with the locals, poorer now, and scarier.1 We left hours late and I got to Burlington at 9:30. I hate getting to where I’m going in the dark.

David is forced to drive. Again.

Jen, as usual, picked me up at the airport. On our last adventure together, she had passed out at a wedding, forcing me to assume the “driving” duties. Hilarity ensued.

“Yo, get in, motherfucker.”

Continue reading