Hawk Season Notebook #272
You once owned cuff-links... a set from your mother for turning fourteen. Concept against Aspiration and Confidence. What you really wanted that birthday was to get in on the ground floor with Marcella, a long-legged junior high pom-pom girl. A few years dribbled past... and you sat in a white dress shirt and wool suit in an employment agency, cuff-links in place, and waited to interview for office work. Down-luck seedy Christians also interviewed. You waited... daydreamed yourself on a John Wayne desertscape... running from the law on a flesh-eating horse. The interviewer was patronizing... poor grades on your high school record. You reached into a pocket of your suit jacket... retrieved a store-fresh plug of Brown's Mule chewing tobacco, wished you were Gabby Hayes, tossed it from hand to hand, affected a doltish grin... added a stream of drool down your chin. You once owned cuff-links... and you liked to imagine that they had historic value... perhaps worn by Doc Holliday in Philadelphia at dental school. You tore cellophane from the rectangular tobacco plug. As you bit off a small chaw of Brown's Mule, the interviewer stood, said, We shall review your resume, but did not offer a parting handshake.