Hefler's Turn

My cat's name is Oprah Winfrey. She is a domestic short hair, or so the vet tells me. She is healthy and smart and sleeps on the pillow next to my pillow at night when I sleep. Sometimes Oprah Winfrey will wake me up with her purrs, but I don't mind. I'll say, "Oprah Winfrey, what are you talking about?" She won't answer me, but she will stop her purrs. She will yawn, which causes me to yawn, which causes me to think how strange it is that my cat's yawn makes me yawn. "Oprah Winfrey," I will say, "You're so crazy."

I like to wake up at night. I like to look at the clock and see that I still have three more hours of sleep, or maybe four. I like that. I like to think about that. How I wish time would just stop right there and I could take that feeling and hold onto that feeling and go with that feeling to heaven or wherever the next stop is. I would like that. I would like to be put in that position, late at night, say around 2:30 or 3:00 in the morning.

The clock always goes off at six. This kills me. Mornings always kills me. I have probably died over three thousand times because of mornings. I have never really thought about this. I am not sure who I should report this to or how to write it down. I will have to look into this later this afternoon.

Oprah Winfrey doesn't have a job. At least she doesn't have a job where she gets paid. If Oprah Winfrey talked, I bet she would tell me her job was to keep the bed warm, because that is what she does. She keeps the bed warm while I am away at work all day. Before I leave in the morning I tell Oprah Winfrey that I will be back later. She stares at me but doesn't say anything. She doesn't even yawn. I walk out of the apartment cursing Oprah Winfrey because I am so jealous of her. She is not even two years old, yet she is retired and collecting checks and free food and fresh water. Oprah Winfrey should be grateful. Deep down I hope she is.

mail

Mom writes:

Hey Kristine baby. We miss you. Hope you are getting settled. Hope the futon you got before you left fits the room. Your sister and I can't wait to see the place. Today it rained. Buckets. Your father was going to cut the grass but went to the mall instead. You know how your father is about the mall. We're still talking with the insurance company about the fire in the Dodge. Who would have thought it would take this long to get this thing settled. I didn't. Anyways, thought I'd drop a quick hello. I'm sure you're busy with school and all. How are the other teachers you're working with? How are the students? Any hell raisers? Talk to you soon, Ms. Beaver!

Love Mom!

this afternoon

Dad says that there can't be no nothing laying around the apartment this afternoon. He says he's got a girl, one from work, coming home with him after they get through with their shift. He also says that me and Cora better not be anywhere near the apartment this afternoon because that just wouldn't be good. That's what he said. He did, last night.

And I'm not so mad or upset at dad because I don't need to be at the apartment this afternoon. I don't have any friends or girls of my own coming over, but I am just thinking of what I should do this afternoon. There's a soccer game, so that means Beau and Reg are tied up, which might be a good thing because last time we got together in the afternoon we lit some of the woods on fire. That almost got out of hand real quick but luckily it didn't and I'm glad because I know some of the guys that work on the fire department and they're a tough bunch. I've seen a couple of them not in their firefighting clothes, but over at the apartment, hanging out with dad at nights. They like to get loud, the firefighters and dad, while they drink whiskey or scotch or beer, i'm not sure which or in which order.

So I need to let Cora know not to be at the apartment this afternoon. I need to let her know a little bit about what dad said, about the girl from work. She'd be mad as hell if I didn't. She'd call me all sorts of names like fat head or muscle nuts or pigeon shit. I don't like it when Cora calls me those names. When she says certain words, they hurt. She has a way of saying them. Then again, I wouldn't mind getting Cora mad. I noticed she drank all of the strawberry milk this morning and on top of that she always uses up all the hot water in the shower. That bugs me, the hot water thing. Why does she have to do that? I'll have to ask her.

the world's fair

We danced to the Tennessee Waltz . The New England Fiddlers Association supplied the rythm. We did our best, counting in threes, counting in threes, counting in threes, trying to copy the feet of the old timers, the ones who have danced to the Tennesse Waltz before.

One day, I said to my wife, our hips will move like theirs. One day, we will not move so awkward, so awkwardly.

The song ended. It always does. We walked past the concessions, the games, the beer garden. We saw familiar faces and those familiar faces saw ours. Sometimes we traded hellos. Sometimes we didn't.

We made our way to the bumper cars, but the line was too long.

I'm too old for this, I said to my wife. I'm too old for all of this waiting around.

We made our way to the pig race. We clapped and cheered. We laughed at the pigs running in circles. We laughed and we laughed.

By the time the race was over, it was dark. We made on last lap around the grounds, petting the oxen, touching the chickens. A stray goat almost took my wife out, but I pulled her arm before it was too late.

Close call, I said. That goat almost got you.

We made it to the car and out of the parking lot without any problems

It was a good fair, my wife said. One of the better ones I've been to.

I agreed, driving with my brights on, looking for deer, squinting.

You never know when you're going to run into a deer out here.