[font="times new roman"]The Way Things Were[/font]
[font="times new roman"] Ain’t nothin’ bitin’ today. My friend shot a yellow round of spit into a small tin cup as he spoke. He had to talk over the squeal of my rod as I reeled it in. Fish musta all gone some place better. I looked at him as I spoke. Another month er two and the whole dang pond’ll be dry. My friend opened his mouth to give me his mind, but choked on dust a truck stirred on its way out of town. I chuckled and cast out again. I had a few bites, but my friend had nothing. That’s how things were around here. Some people had a little; others hadn’t a thing. So what do you think? He spat after every sentence. You goin’ to graduate? Goin’ to get the heck outta Dodge? I laughed again. Ain’t nothin’ better to do. I looked at him as I spoke, but he was hardly listening. Reckon school’s my best shot outta here. Now he was laughing. He glanced first to the train station across the pond, then out to the truck now on the horizon of the highway. That’s my way out. His spit no longer hit tin, but instead made a noise like the acorns as they fall into the pond. I kicked at the ground and looked around. Not a soul walked the streets. Reckon they were eating with their families or still in the church. Trees were being born and the town itself was dying. That’s how things were around here. We didn’t need to talk to pass the time. Bees hummed a bass line emphasized by the steady beat of wings from dragonflies that came and left our fishing lines. Birds chirped a sorrowful melody accompanied by the lower tenor of a toad choir. Even the awful creek of our rusted reels couldn’t break the symphony of nature. A small gray trout leaped from the water and crashed adding a powerful cymbol to the band. Church bells rang interrupting the performance mid-measure. Still a distant ocean breeze stirred the leaves in ovation. My friend smiled. Ain’t nothing like it. The sound of tin echoed from the cup he just emptied in the pond. Still no catches. I had a few opportunities, but he had nothing. The church bell finished after its fifth stroke, and was followed by the whistle from the mill in the center of town. Across the pond, a man in front of an eighteen-wheeler was yelling into his cell phone while typing furiously on a laptop. Poor fool. I nudged my friend and pointed to the man with my rod. Like heck that phone’ll work out here. We sat and watched the man for half an hour as he struggled to refill the old soda machine that must have been there fifty years. Stupid sonuvagun. My friend tried to spit but his mouth was dry so he tossed the cup on the ground. All that technological whatnot ain’t goin’ to help him. That’s how things were around here. The sun slipped behind the rusted water tower. The once blue tower now stood green, and our town’s name now an illegible paint wound that marred the side. I’m goin’ home and I’d wager you oughtta too. My friend spat on the ground. You got school tomorrow. He picked up his cup and looked out over the pond. Not a dang thing. He spat at the pond and left, leaving no trail in the marshy shore. I stayed until dusk. Squirrels chased each other around an oak sending a cardinal from his nest. The sun turned the sky as purple as the Jackaranda lining the pond and as yellow and red as the leaves in November. I looked to the clock on the church, forgetting it had stopped working long ago. The First National Bank sign flashed fifty-five degrees. It was going to be a nice walk home. I cast out a few more times but never could hook my bites. That’s how things were around here.[/font]