Painting of the Silver Fox

“Wooweee, aren’t you a tall one?” my grandpa surely must have said when the 6’7” Indian walked through the door. He showed up at the Silver Fox to play some pool with his Yakama friends.
My grandpa owned the place. Most of his customers came from the bowling alley next door. When the alley closed up shop, so did my grandpa, and he moved on to other things. But this is still during the good years, somewhere in the seventies.
The Silver Fox had the works: bar, taps, pool tables, stools. Neon lights welcomed visitors and frequenters alike. The place wasn’t big, it wasn’t fancy. It’s just the stop the working man would make before getting home to his Lazy Boy. Not like there was anything else to do in Yakima, nor would anyone in Yakima want to do anything else.
The Indian picked up a pool cue, to which my grandpa must have said, “Don’t you go breaking that. I have a wife and two kids to feed.”
The Indian laughed. Everybody laughed at my grandpa’s jokes, his teasing, and his jolliness. When we went out in public with him –no joke –he knew everyone. And if he didn’t, he soon would.
So it really doesn’t come as any surprise that not only did he get to know this particular Indian, but that the Indian came to like him and his place enough to decorate it.
“You know what, Ernie,” the Indian must have said. “Taverns like this…they could use a touch of art, don’t you think?” Maybe he went on to share what significance the fox had in Native American mythology. He surely told my grandpa how he was an artist. It was how he made ends meet.
“Well, if you’re offering, I sure won’t say ‘no’.” My grandpa probably eyed the wall opposite the bar. “Yeah, right there. We could use a silver fox right there.”
The Indian would have followed his gaze. “Hmm, a big space, but I’ll fill it.”
“What? No, you don’t have to fill that whole thing. Just sketch me something out and I’ll frame it.”
The Indian would have set down his glass, his palm flat on the bar. “Not a sketch. A full, big painting. A gift for you, my friend. Next time I’m in town, I’ll bring it by.”
“I’ll finally be able to set my stools back up! Where’re you headin’ off to?”
The Indian took a drink, savoring it. “There was a casting call for a big, ugly Indian. Needless to say, I got the part.”
Then he must have slapped the table and started toward the door. “I don’t remember the exact title…something about a cuckoo’s nest. See you, Ernie.”

You need me. You hate the sound of my voice, but deep down, you want me all the same. There’s no one else you can imagine by your side, night after night. You count on me to be more accurate with my numerals than you are with your checkbook. Heed me, and your day will go as planned. Ignore me, fight me, throw me against the wall, and your hedonism will enact its own punishment.

I see it in your heavy lidded eyes how much you wish to destroy me, but you should know, that if but one of my brethren failed to perform, then it could mean lives. As for you, my failure could mean your livelihood. It could mean a black cloud above your head for days or weeks. But as for me, success could mean a dented wall and a broken LED display, and then, where would you be?

Sympathy for an alarm clock.

Most beautiful word

I think serenity is the most beautiful word in the English language. Maybe I’m cheating because it’s actually Latinate in origin, but really, if I chose a word that went so far back on the timeline that it’s definably Germanic, then I’d be stuck between cow and swine, and come on, those aren’t beautiful even you were in love with beef patties slapped between two slices of pig butt. But, you know, I may be partial because I know serenity means peace and just hearing it gives me peace of mind. I’d love to share this piece of my mind and spread the supreme song that is serenity to other solemn souls because to say it you practically have to sing. Yes, practically. It’s a practical word so not only is it beautiful but it serves a purpose. I like purpose.