By John Clancy This hard-ass kick-ass no-shit shit-kicking son of the soil sonofabitch comes straight at me on a straight line
from the far corner straight from the corner pocket of the roadhouse jukejoint I was drinking in tonight and stops hard standing there way too close to me posts up and smiles. I'd said my prayers this morning so I figured if it's Time I'm clean. He growls "At that ridin'?" I flash a quick wide smile of incomprehension. "O no man. No. I'm just... you know. Getting by." "No. You still at that...ridin'?" And then he pantomimes a scribbled word with his right hand. Writing. Am I still at that writing. "Oh. Yeah. Yeah. Still at it." And we commence a conversation on matters literary, professional and financial elbows on the bar of this honkeytonk in the wilds of southern Illinois. You never know who that person is until you meet them on their home turf. And by god here I am because of him ridin'. Ridin' away. Thanks for noticing brother.
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