Woody says look at em. He points to the Guess-the-Weight game.
I says they’s just people.
No, says Woody. They’s suckers. Why they stand in line for that nonsense?
Well, I says. It’s something to do.
You’re saying they got so much free time they got to fill it with trash.
Don’t know, I says. They look happy to me.
Woody gets mad and he won’t give me no more cigarettes, so I walk off across the Midway.
Carsons moved Woody to the ring toss last week and he can’t work his old hustles no more. That’s why he’s mad.
O He, that Sis-Nancy, he all round everywhere. Got the best stories because he see everything.
You don’t see him, neither, sitting high up on the strings he build between the tree branches or the rafters of your hut.
Maybe catch him a fly. Maybe catch him a story, your own story.
You tell a story all the time, but you don’t know it.
Sis-Nancy, he see you telling it, catch him that story, wrap it up and keep it with all the others.
Maybe one day he bring it out, fit it in with the rest, but maybe not.
“Look, Daddy. I don’t want to fight. I was just hoping you’d come. Most of the parents are coming.”
“Probably want to see where their tuition money went.”
“You were the one who said I could go.”
“I said you could, not that you should. Art school? What job exactly does this prepare you for?”
“There are lots of successful artists, Dad.”
“Way more unsuccessful ones. You know what your degree qualifies you to do? To come back and live at home. Forever.”
“You’ve made your feelings clear, Father. Fine. Don’t come. I doubt you would understand my piece anyway.”