Fiction, Vol. 5.1, March 2011
Your version of events was intentionally distorted, that’s what Lena told me, that’s what I’ve come to believe, and I guess the toughest single thing for me to figure out is why you’d want to hide the dragon from my ass, why you would claim some great red beast was just a much smaller lizard glimpsed in weirdly refracted sunlight. There’s no sunlight coming down anywhere I know of that can take a Gila monster and make it look like a mature komodo dragon. And then why pretend the sign painter knew no English, when Lena (with no extraordinary investigative skills on her part) so easily dredged up his employment application and beheld several paragraphs in his loopy cursive, enthusiastically telling why he thought the sign painter position could anchor a career path to calligrapher. So what happened next, of course, is that once I finished detailing in my head several (if not all) of your intentional distortions, my thinking then shifted to what’s in it for you, what the shit’s your motive? Lena (God bless her forty double d’s and her newly-botoxed backside) was of no real help here, and I chose not to push that particular envelope too far. Instead I ruminated on things overnight in my bunk; it might be more accurate to say I let your falsehoods and Lena’s corrections marinate my brain as I lay comfortably on a quilt during the day’s darkest hours. Now here’s what I came up with: the dragon (i.e., Big Red) mangled and chewed Sydney the sign painter’s feet as he was stretched out in the road lettering a curb-high STAY-OFF-THE-GRASS warning. As Sydney’s terrible screams went out in the morning air, Big Red’s tail scraped against the just-painted sign as he thrashed about and soon clomped away from all the bedlam, and I logically reason that your name got spelled out accidentally in tail-brushed letters on the sign. I certainly don’t, therefore, in any major way hold you responsible for anything, and I really doubt that Sydney does either. I do know that both Sydney and Lena would join me in admonishing you that lying very, very seldom makes shit any better.