The Tree House
I’ve been dumb for a while, but lately the dumb’s been getting dumber. I nailed my right hand to the tree house. Where the four bones spread out like a garden rake, the nail went through the middle two like the flesh was tissue paper. All I was trying to do was to replace some rotting wood with fresh planks. The boards were all covered with yellow goo and wood was crumbling away just by my picking at it.
That morning I asked Mr. Audette – the one who sort of looks after me, or as he calls it, the man who makes sure I stay out of any more trouble – if I could use the six inch wire nails he’d stolen from the mine. I had to be pretty careful when asking him a question, especially if he’d passed out in his lawn chair. He didn’t like to be bothered. During those summer days, he worked at the copper mine, came home to sit in the back yard and drink, then pass out before sunset. Some days he would mix it up, but mostly it involved a lot of heavy drinking and swearing.
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