By Wayne Jackson 1950-1989
It's high time I got back to it. That's what I'd been thinking all morning as I'd watched the hot lumps of cars heavily following each other down the straight wavering road four miles off and fouteen hundred feet down.
I shifted the belt to relieve the pressure caused by forty pounds of tools and the pressure of the linyard holding me in, leaving my hands free to work. Where the belt rides my hip the skin has grown darker over the years. The weight was something I'd long since quit noticing.
Then I resumed working kinks out of my left hand, shifting my weight from one leg to the other and digging my thumb hard into the opposite palm, and I was watching those hot cars and watching French, waiting for what he was gonna say , knowing what was coming...
"Bananas." French said.
I ignored the conclusion.
Copyright © 1997 by Donald Wayne Jackson, All rights reserved