gemini is no stranger to what others would deem ghost towns, would never be. it was an acquired taste. grew up smack dab in the middle of one, on a night colder than a witchās titty. some odd amount of years in the mountains with nothing but old records and garden soil made him fond of quiet mornings and late, drunk noise. hell of a gardener, too. the hushed nights now only make him miss his mother. every loretta lynn track causes him to call her, and thereās no particular shortage in a town like edenholle. but on halloween, itās only midnight in montgomery and donāt fear the reaper.
gun-grip angled over an engine, he mutters something about blue oyster cult that gets lost in the receiving end of a cigarette. the twitch in his muscles stiffens a map of veins down his prominent arm. coolant pools in the shadow of an old pieceāa shit other people couldnāt be paid to touch. ācan i drive with a cracked engine block?ā he parrots, puffing that cherry wild flower red, certain heās alone. a steady loss of fluid serves as a muted acoustic. the sun sits too high, cooking him like a Happy Flats bratwurst. heās rented a garage unit for the day and given a price cut on the repair, sold himself short once again.
itās fall, aināt no doubt about it. in spite of the heat of the sun, a lofty roll of dry leaves at the edge of concrete rustles a reminder. they sometimes dance and stumble around carved gourds. between buildings the air is bristling with all spice and clove. itād make even a sane man apple crazy, as his grandmother used to say. nobody never laughed at that except for gemini.
a couple of kids skitter down main street, his back to the giddy commotion and candy bags. the third round of alan jackson makes gem snap and tentatively surrender, take a break to admire the diy skill of mamas āround town. which really ended up being more of an out-of-county-fair competition amid mothers whoād grown bored with cross stitchinā bad words for their childless friends and drinking all the wine. in another month, itāll be casserole wars with mammaw. for now, all the excitement is balled up in craft cotton, glitter, superheroes, plastic pistols and glue guns. itās a sobering sight for someone who regularly forgets the rest of the world while lost in his own.
he garners a few waves. here, everybody knows just about everybody. oil stains work themselves in small spirals ātil theyāre dark meres on an aged gray tee shirt whose letters once cohesively spelt something about some bar and day drinkinā. he fans the material, shakes his cigarette carton for a blind count. looks for a familiar silhouette on the street to procrastinate with, even though he aināt feeling particularly social.