We're 36,000 feet above the Mohave Desert, where $6 buys a very serviceable Bloody Mary.
A toast to my brother - Cheers! - who once got lost down there while hitchhiking somewhere.
Scott was always running away. That time, he got sidetracked for a couple of weeks in some rock hunters' camp, ingratiating himself with the beautiful, under-aged Marilyn. My father, getting sober in Houston, was called upon to post bail, fund a lawyer, and pay ER charges for a broken nose and some stitches. Already he knew that what he was really buying Scott was a little more time.
I, too, am programmed to run, but I am far more destination oriented and not nearly as reckless.
Half this flight looks down upon an grungy knobby brown. No, you won't find ‘grungy brown' in your Crayola box. And wish as I might, that's no burnt sienna. From Texas to LA, the USA looks it's been tortured by an acetylene torch.
Then - voila! - Santa Barbara, abloom in a serape-like palette of primary color - where money draws water like a sponge. Before taking flight in Boston, I composed seven eulogies for my brother.
My only task left - select the one I will read tonight. I am thinking none of these will do.
You know you are a failure when you are a writer who finds herself at a loss for words.
iPhone Composition #362, made circling LA
Baby brother, I realized you loved me when:
- You didn't invite me to that one wedding of yours held on the rooftop in which the wedding party and guests came naked. Thank you for that.
- You made me a butterfly net to capture the various swallowtails, monarchs, gulf fritillaries and, when nothing else was doing, cabbage sulfurs.
- You engineered the bedroom window so I could escape when things got bad.
- You showed me how to steal food from Mr. Green and when I wouldn't, you did it for me.
- You called me 17 times last Saturday night and assumed so obnoxious a persona that I never wanted to see or hear from you again.
Good job. Now rest in peace. Finally.