In one of the square states this past week we dined in an Olive Garden on purpose. The Olive Garden is democratic for the most part which is to say that each and every one of us carries around a latent hub cap for a half an hour while avoiding eye contact with people such as myself.
You can drink wine while you’re doing this but the people such as myself are still there and we’ll find you anyway.
“Make the most of whatever Hell you’re wearing.”
Cecil told me that in college. He was right about that and other stuff.
He’s still dead but dead don’t make you wrong.
I met a lovely Native American woman with blood tatoos on her arms. She’s a storyteller.
“In my tribe these lines get longer with generations because we drift farther from the truth,” she said, indicating the glorious ink on her hands and wrists.
“Beautiful,” I told her.
“It’s my destiny to carry the stories of the tribe until I can no longer bear them,” she explained.
“And then?” I asked.
“And then the tribe forgives me and moves on to a new storyteller.”
The hub cap buzzes to life – lights blink and children applaud.
“Very nice to meet you Mary,” I told her. “Don’t fill up on the bread sticks – a little white man secret.”
She laughed. “It’s no secret,” she said.