“Come sit down with me on the Nasty Couch for a moment.”
“Lance, I am your Muse. And I will love you for all time. And Believe me: I have time. Back in that day when William S. was struggling… I hooked him up. Back When Coleridge had that Albatross about his neck, I hooked him up. Back when Sam Clemens had no pot to piss in, I hooked him up. But you! You! YOU WEAR ME OUT!”
As we were sitting there, me gazing into her eyes, she glaring at mine…
“Boom! Boom! Boom!”
Someone was pounding at my door.
“UPS?” Muse asked.
“No” I said. “Delirium Tremens Man. Right on schedule.”
“Stay put; I’ll handle this,” she said as she thrust her tiny self against the door and screamed, “Fuck Off! This is MY TIME With Lance!”
I could barely hear the faint sound of shuffling footsteps as he skulked away.
Muse sat back down on the couch.
“Now, where were we?”
“Darling, I have no idea, but you seem to be in charge. Please don’t hurt me.”
Back in 1974 I found myself at Warrior Stadium, Watching the HG Warriors kick the ever’ loving shit outta those Fannindale (dale?, del?) Ladonia! I was born in that town, ’57! Guess I can call their football team what-ever-the-fuck I want… Falcons.
I should have been on the field, but I had opted out my senior year, because I was tired of the whole “Friday Night Lights” shit.
And I was too busy.
Seated on opposite sides of me were Joe Whitley (Who was a math teacher and a rancher and father of my girlfriend, and also my employer) and William Henry—Local Big Boy and World – Famous Drunk.
We were seated near the top of the stadium, nearly to the “Press Box.”
William Henry looked behind and spied something that interested him.
Behind the stands was the ‘Practice Field’ of the Famed Honey Grove Warriors.
There was a ‘Blaster Machine’ parked there.
Joe and I watched William Henry navigate down the stands and make his way toward same.
We watched with great curiosity as William Henry studied this machine.
He backed up ‘bout fifty foot and charged head-long into it.
It slid back ‘bout ten feet.
He shook his head.
Went back another fifty foot.
Hit it full force.
Slid back another ten foot.
William Henry in earnest now hit it with all his might (and his head)
Still did not get through.
(Blaster Machines are a one – way street)
Joe and I watched him navigate his way back up to our seat.
He sat down, and with blood running into his eyes, said,
“Ya know, you gotta be one tough sumbitch to play football!”