By Don L. Robishaw, Ed.D.
I stare and wince at my big cardinal-numbered blackface Timex. I’ve got five minutes. Man, what can you do in five minutes? Kiss Sandy good-bye, smoke a joint, brush my last twelve teeth, recite ten Hail Marys…
I’m down to four minutes.
I don’t believe in God, those last twelve teeth are really strong, and Sandy’s dead. I push off the granite rock, stand, and survey the Veterans Administration Hospital’s one-hundred acres of lawn.
Four minutes later I put the roach back in the tin. In a cloud of dust and the speed of light…fire up the Lawn Ranger!
I can picture this character clear as day, well done
Thank you. Work and ganja may not have been the cure for everyone who suffered from battle fatigue or PTSD, but might have been better for a few than thorazine and psycho-babble. Shit, I hope I don’t get into trouble for that remark.
Great imagery. Wonderful lines, like “…those last twelve teeth…”. Realistic.
Thanks Bobby,
My original line was last twelve brain cells. Personally, I ‘d need a lot more than four minutes to work on those so I switched it to teeth.
Nicely done!
Thank You.
I envision Tom Waits as the protagonist and the internal monologue in his raspy voice. I’m not sure why you entitled it “Script”
Tom,
Thanks. I’ve become a big Tom Waits fan over the last ten years. …got a dozen albums.
Script is short for prescription. Woulda been nice if some of men (and women) coming home from Viet Nam coulda got a script for ganga. That’s all I’m saying.
I realize now what script is – give me some slack…it was late here when I wrote it!!!
This has a nice tight construction, Don. You kept me wondering right to the last! Bravo!
Thanks Dave! Can you guess who is manning the Lawn Ranger while waiting for grad school to start?