Girl by the whirlpool is looking for a new fool

Steve, I think, is Native. Or Hispanic. He’s dark like me. My skin ain’t dark, but my hair, my eyes, my attitude, writing, humor, etc., all is.

Steve has a full mustache, tho, which doesn’t say Native. He’s the only one around here which does chaw. Everybody and their dog smokes, but Steve has chaw. We go out and stand under the dead tree and chaw and spit like cowboys or baseball players.

He is a baker by trade, and I can chaw and spit and listen to him forever as he goes on and on about yeast and leavening and how baking in a moist environment is a good thing, as far as chewy and/or crunchy crust goes. I, myself, am a home baker.

He hasn’t offered his particular brand of crazy and I haven’t offered mine and neither of us ask. That would be rude.

But he has chaw and a sense of humor and a brain. His sister, in fact, hooks him up with Copenhagen, and when she comes next week he’s gonna tell her to bring an extra can for me.

What a guy.

Today, as we were standing under the dead tree spitting and cursing, he asked me who my favorite poet was. I told him Dylan Thomas or Bob Dylan, and he said “Girl by the whirlpool is looking for a new fool.”

I grinned at him, my teeth brown and slimy from the chaw. He grinned back, equally as ugly.