Falling in with squatters and getting my stuff chucked out the window in Brooklyn. The violence and trash talk of a college rugby club. Read these stories and more in my book, Odd Jobs & After Hours
Boards of a two-block-long pier on the shore of Lake Marion slither in the waves like the spines of a great creature, creaking and groaning all the while.
Sunburnt strangers, white stripes of sunscreen striping the rounds of their bellies and slopes of their noses, wave from a passing pontoon boat.
On shore, fishermen bring just-caught catfish, grouper, and flounder to the back door of a wooden restaurant.
Soon the catch will be fried, basketed, and served with coleslaw.
Nearly all of the boats fly the Stars and Stripes on the top of their masts.
Three stray cats stretch themselves under trees dripping with Spanish moss, or they make moon eyes at outdoor diners for scraps of fish.
The sun is behind a grey haze of clouds.
The air carries clean water smell, and is loud with the senseless, perfect music of water.
Blonde women, one in a cut-apart flannel tank top and bathing suit, the other in a pink mega church t-shirt reading, “Jesus Loves this Hot Mess” sun themselves on the shore.
Smoke comes and goes in the air, brought by a cobblestone chimney on shore.
Trailers and RVs are hitched up for the night in a nearby parking lot.
It’s a sleepy southern evening, and Jesus loves this hot mess.