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PULLMAN
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Roadside Graves
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THURSDAY, Aug. 5
@ TBA -
Stereopathic on Hypem
Jul
14
Song in Plaster: Little Wings, “Scuby”
Filed Under Updates
Scuby walks up and down the street. He sees a man in the uniform of a shopkeeper. Oh, he thinks, a shopkeeper. I’ll ask him. He approaches the shopkeeper. The shopkeeper looks disapprovingly at his attire, red overalls and a shirt complementing the inebriating attributes of tequila. Shoes made of raccoon pelt. Oh, Scuby thinks, small minds in small towns. Golf-club wielding idiots. Not used to true individuals such as myself. That’s a clue. He greets the shopkeeper with a maximum of joviality but the shopkeeper wears an expression like a frog pelt (a frog pelt being a thing Scuby has witnessed).
“Sir, I’d like to ask a question if I may.” The shopkeeper, sitting on a bench in front of his shop does not move but follows Scuby’s jutting Adam’s Apple with his eyes. Cretin thinking, Scuby thinks, that he was always taught to keep his eye on the ball. Being of an optimistic nature and undaunted, Scuby takes this not directly negative response as invitation for his question. The shopkeeper regards Scuby as though he is a man in an animal skin.
“What town is this, sir?” The shopkeeper continues to eye Scuby, now moving his gaze from Adam’s Apple to Scuby’s eyes, as though he’s suspicious about the skin around the eyes. The shopkeeper does not answer Scuby’s question. A friendly sort of person though Scuby is, he does not appreciate being treated in this subhuman manner, a bearskin rug walked about on with golf cleats.
“Sir, I beg a response.” No response.
“Well, this is fine. A fellow human here, craving discourse, or an answer at least, and not getting even the succor of a human voice indicating his disinclination to speak of me. Just dumb staring.” Scuby’s voice has risen a bit.
“I’ve spent the last three weeks in those woods, on account of wandering away from my fellows as we camped. I wandered away because of the many intoxicants I had taken, and have barely survived the many challenges of this wilderness. And I find myself here, talking to you in the same way I spoke to the tree on the seventh day I found myself wandering. But the tree at least moved with the wind, a slight nod in its invertebrate cant.” Scuby looked up as a woman in the middle of her age popped her head through the door of the next shop over, a shop selling a host of useful objects constructed from raccoon pelts, including raccoon pelt golf cleats.
“But I imagine that this is the way everyone in this town is; looking for ways to screw the sojourner. This is a sad state of affairs. Sad and sad.”
“Excuse me,” the proprietress of the raccoon pelt store put in.
“Yes, ma’am,” Scuby responded brightly, hopeful for salient communication.
“That man’s Rook Tabby. He’s been struck dumb ever since childhood and his maniac brother buried him up to his neck at the edge of a golf course, head covered by a taxidermied groundhog. They didn’t find him forever. He hasn’t ever been right since. They let him wear that uniform because it’s the only thing that’s made him smile in twenty years.”
“Oh,” said Scuby. “My mistake.”
In this way, Scuby realized a great truth and also purchased the finest raccoon skin golf bag he ever saw.
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