you and me GUEST POSTCARD – #35 1/2 by Eric Westerlind
I mentioned in my #35 postcard introduction that you might be seeing Eric Westerlind’s words sooner rather than later and I’m happy as hell to introduce some of them to you now. Eric made me grin my biggest grin when he asked for a postcard so he could return the favour and write a shorty for me. His address tucked under a little secret pocket on the card compartment made me explode.
So enough from me – meet Eric…
Me. A Coloradan living in a three story bedroom, working in a treehouse.
Surprised I was, mainly at the thick stock of the postcard, then the trim handwriting of one
yt sumner of Australialand Ln. Mama, brother, peekin over my shoulders like ‘ooo what be
that, boy’ and i told em I’ve gotta write a story for this girl in another country since she’s doin
one for me and they understood that well enough.
Finding that life doesn’t so much change its manners as it does it’s mannerisms, this story.
That gumless shark idea I wanted to make into a movie ended up on the back of a crayon-eaten-
crayon-made postcard. Only wish I’d had the patience to snail mail it back.
Onward, forward, all that! Huzzah.
Thanks yt, for the project. The space, the creativity. You’re crushin and inspiring.
– fre(e) (w)illy
“Take your sweet time, hon.” That soft paper voice, brittle like starched linens.
Did you iron that apron before work? is what I’d ask Ken, apparently (short for what? Kenelope?).
Her skin looks thick, a buffer against this small cafés darker side + guys like me.
Dear Ken, I’m thinking to her backside, I’d take you if I had teeth left. Then again, the coffee’s good enough, appetite suppressed — three sips. She walks to another table, two dark and hairy’s (though who can say if its dirt or grease or anything). They’re probably ordering eggs benedict like all the other drivers do.
A window shatters, one of the big plane ones, CAFÉ DE dot dot dot just dust and a perfect spray of glass shard shrapnel and Ken saw it coming but that just means she gets a bit further before the front of the semi coming through the window catches her and crushes her legs.
The other two are just near splatters, neither less ragged than the other.
Strange thing — a truck in a truck stop café. Seen stranger though.
It’s been six hundred years. Things happen. A Turkish mob pulled my incisors, just post second world war, in Turkey.
MARTIN, who’s opening the truck door now, hypothesized at the time, tied down as we were, that they might grow back. A year later, x number of livestock meals, then more years and mud and hunger, he gave up hope too.
It’s harder, pulling/peeling at the skin, than just puncture-withdraw, but we’ve found that the more exposed surface area
the less work on our part.
Martin starts on the trucker under the table and I stand up, one more sip of coffee, hobble over.
Ken, her uniform soiled with hurts, blood etc, — there’s her tongue, either fleeing down her throat to her heart or playing with her molar, and then I latch on to the second driver, apologizing the whole time in my head that it had to be this way, not prettier, more finesse, nostalgic for a way that undoubtedly, after all these years, I can’t even really remember quite right.