burnt tips

“My ideal is a thinker in overalls.” — Eugene V. Debs

My cell fell out of my overalls bib pocket in a motel parking lot during a midwest checkout — cracked screen. 

Left cerebrum was beside itself. The right declared “Fantastic. We’re free.” 

The ambivalence stirred a shared hunger, though, & together we headed in the general direction of burnt tips, windows down, as if chasing a scent.

I looked at the phone occasionally, dead on the passenger seat & felt no remorse — even uttering to myself aloud, “I feel free — wild & free!”

My hair was in stereo braids then. When I arrived at the BBQ place, the driver-window side was teased out like I’d been half-electrocuted, the other, still reasonably tight. 

I grabbed a fiberglass cafeteria tray & got in line. A cashier smiled & said “Hi.”

I stepped up & smiled a “Hi” back, forgetting that, at the time, I was using a medicated rinse every morning, prescribed by a dentist after a painfully disappointing pre-tour deep-cleaning which, until breakfast each day, would dye my teeth on the edges to resemble rows of fangs, like a bat. 

The entire ensemble had an LSD milkmaid feel.

The cashier said “You look like a wild-man!”

I said, “You know, I was just saying that to someone. I feel wild & free.”

“Well, you are. Have you decided?”

“Yes, we’ll have the burnt tips.”