An enthusiast (VISIONS OF CODY, ON THE ROAD) I felt like
I was everywhere, mild weather
Hallowe’en Day. Working a big wad of bubblegum
with my jaw (a huge wad—I had gotten into
the Hallowe’en candy, I was happy),
I crossed the street, and Boone my mighty coonhound
pulled hard on the leash. I blew
a bubble, popped it. I saw an old man
sitting alone at his kitchen table and I
waved friendlily at him. Why not?
In response he made the whoop-de-doo gesture
(a sort of whirlwind with one hand, a vertical
version of the crazy gesture). I decided
to egg his house that night (though I love
the Tennessee Williams quote “Deliberate
unkindness is the greatest sin”). The hours
passed. I procured one egg—white as white
can be, slightly pebbled—from the fridge.
My wife (as if endowed with ESP
or witchly intuition) said, looking
worried, “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” I walked to the old man’s
house, chickened out (the sound of a splat
might bring him to the window), and
set the egg on his front step
to frighten him, maybe, or simply
to make him aware of an entity
(possibly benign, possibly sadistic) aware
of him. Such is life on Earth. It was
not my place to worry him. For years
afterward I found scraps of
eggshells in my yard, as if blown there
by the wind, or carried there
by rats, little by little
making me a Christian neighbor.