Jack.

He swings his arms, and kicks out his feet as he walks.  Usually, he is humming.  His lips stick out assuredly, and he nods his head in quick, sharp gestures.  He grins easily and laughs all the time.  His name is Jack.  Tonight we walked to the “party” that wasn’t a party, and he carried the bong in his bag.  He doesn’t go anywhere without it.

He travels with the bong.

He also had my sister’s Ipod on him, connected to some tiny speakers.  He walked down the beach, kicking up and sand and singing, while the music played out from the folds of his clothes.  He’s like a modern-day eighties dude, but instead of carrying a boom box on his shoulder, he carries Ipod speakers in his clothes.

Earlier today he was poking Brigitte with a stick through the slats in the porch.  She and I were sitting on mats, filing our nails and taking bong hits, when she twisted around quickly and asked if I had poked her.  No.img_0848Then it happened again.  It turned out it was Jack beneath us, making trouble with the stick.  As usual.

Later, I peeked over the edge of the porch and saw him crouched down among the rocks, lighting a fire.  He was burning plastic, naughty boy, and the smoke floated up all around us, obscuring the light and making the sunset beautiful, and keeping the stupid mosquitoes away.

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