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Down in the Dirt magazine (v096)
(the July 2011 Issue)




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“America the Lost”
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Happy Hour

Terry Ferrell

    I’ve been asked on more than one occasion what really happened that day. I guess you could say it’s entirely my fault. Well, at least partially. Certainly the blame is not fully hers.
    Like many professionals, sometimes I allowed myself to be married to my work. I guess you could say I was the first real workaholic, even though back then we just called it devotion. You also have to keep in mind I had a lot of pressure on my shoulders. Coming up with creative and innovative names for every little thing that moves was intense work. And the boss, although, a really nice guy, was not someone whose bad side you wanted to be on.
    She knew the importance of my job coming into this whole thing, but you know how young love goes. A person tells you they once killed their own brother in a jealous rage, but you don’t care; you’re in love. Besides, it’s not like I ever killed my brother or anything like that. In fact, it would be several more years before murder would corrupt our little community. I was just your average, everyday guy trying to hold down a job.
    She never overtly complained about my work habits even though it would have been impossible for her to hide her true feelings from me. When connected as powerfully as we were, your feelings and emotions are no longer a private matter. She was truly a part of me, you know what I mean?
    Now, I know what you’re thinking. Why didn’t I just take a couple of days off? Thinking back, I can’t rightly say. We spent every Sunday together, the boss was a real stickler for remembering the Sabbath and all of that, and I guess I thought that was enough. The boss wasn’t so a rigid a guy he wouldn’t give me a couple of days off. Hell, he even told me on a number of occasions I had been granted a beautiful gift and I better not let her get away. But, I liked the work. The environment was nice and I was really making a name for myself.
    This is probably a longer story than you thought. Let me buy you a drink. What’s your poison? Capitan and Coke, it is! Bartender, can I get a Capitan and Coke for my friend here and another Manhattan for me. I was never a rum type of guy, you know. Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes!
    I enjoyed the work. I really felt I had a purpose. I guess I thought me having a purpose was good enough for both of us. Even though I knew she was lonely, I never really took it into account. I kept telling myself I would plan something special for her. But, you know how it is. Life happens and little romantic ideas get pushed to the backburner. So, it was no real surprise when she got the wandering eye.
    I had seen him a couple of times before any of this ever happened. He used to sit under this tree and write poetry. She had seen him before too. One day we passed him on our way for groceries. She glanced over at him once. Then again. And again. I couldn’t blame her. He had this skin that shimmered in the sunlight. and a voice like cotton balls, light and soft; the voice of an angel, really. His words sort of hung in the air and lazily floated about like dandelion seeds.
    I guess it was about three days after this encounter when it all really went down. I was over in a little meadow take some inventory of wildflowers about thirty yards or so from our little poet friend and his tree. I was quite engaged in my counting, when I happened to glance up and saw her walking towards him. I probably did one of those double takes you see nowadays in cartoons.
    I was surprised on a number of levels to see her. She usually stayed near the house and kept to herself. I watched them for several moments. She had no idea I was there. If he knew, he certainly did not take any notice. It all happened so fast. One minute he was saying something to make her laugh and offering her a piece fruit. I can still see her trembling hands as she lifted the fruit to her lips.
    Back then, the laws were not as lenient as they are today. This crime was unspeakable, the worst really! One would have guessed I would have been furious. I wasn’t though. I knew this was my fault, which is why I did what I did.
    I ran to my little Mockingbird, that’s what I called her, and pulled her into my arms. She was crying. I was crying. He was just sort of smirking. She cried and begged my forgiveness, while I cried and begged her forgiveness. Then, I did what I thought was the right thing.
    Dear friend, forgive me, but I too took a bite. I can still vividly remember the smell as I sunk my teeth in. It was sort of like nectar, honey, and milk all wrapped in jasmine leaves. And how could I forget that red skin? You’ve never seen such a deep shade of red, like blood, only less morbid. No sir, they don’t make apples like that anymore.
    Anyway, I couldn’t bear the thought of her being punished; her boiling alone for all eternity was a pain too harsh for my soul to withstand. I decided then and there I would rather roast with her forever like two Cornish game hens in the hot fires of the afterlife rather than being separated. And, well, I guess you know how the rest turned out.
    Anyway, where are my manners? Enough about me. What brings you here?



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