The Serpent King(35)
I love a witchy, dark, gloomy autumn day, when it rains from the time you wake up until the time you go to bed. And you can listen to Leonard Cohen and wrap yourself up in a warm blanket of exquisite melancholy.
I will say this for Tennessee: it does autumn well. We break out the wreaths, the cornstalks, the hay bales, the wood smoke, and the scarecrows. The leaves are amazing. I can’t believe this is probably my last autumn in Tennessee for a while. I’ll miss it. I hope wherever I end up rocks autumn at least half as well.
I’m in one of those periods where every ounce of my mental energy is being diverted elsewhere (college-y stuff, etc. and so forth), to the point that I don’t feel like I have anything particularly important or insightful to say. That’s when I’ll sometimes answer frequently asked questions because HEY, FREE INTERNET CONTENT. Anyway, let us begin.
Q. Why do you always spell “Forrestville” as “Forestville”?
A. Because Forrestville is named after Nathan Bedford Forrest, the founder of the Ku Klux Klan, which makes my town’s name roughly as awesome as if it were “Hitlerville.” Oh! And bonus! It’s in White County (not named after white people, as far as I know). Point being: it’s the worst. And as I always say, forests are way better than racists. So I always write “Forestville” because YOU MUST BE THE CHANGE YOU WANT TO SEE IN THE WORLD. Anyway, the dropped “r” from Forrestville stands for “racist.”
Q. What year are you in school and where are you going to college? What do you want to study?
A. Senior and that remains to be seen. Here’s my list, starting with my first pick and then in no particular order: NYU, Oberlin, Smith, Brown, Sarah Lawrence, Princeton, Harvard, Yale, Columbia, Cornell, Vanderbilt, Vassar, Wellesley. I want to study journalism.
Q. Who are your style icons/role models?
A. Both real and fictional (please feel free to Google copiously): DOLLY PARTON (obvs), Margot Tenenbaum, Zadie Smith, Debbie Harry, Natasha Khan, Angela Chase, Veronica Mars, Jenny Lewis, Patti Smith, Dee Dee Penny, KatieJane Garside, Meg White, Donna Tartt, Florence Welch, PJ Harvey, Beyoncé, Stevie Nicks, Joan Didion, Frida Kahlo, Martha Gellhorn, Ana?s Nin, Flannery O’Connor.
Q. Who are your favorite designers/houses?
A. Rodarte, Rick Owens, Vivienne Westwood, Prada, Billy Reid (I’m still a Southerner).
Q. Are you a lesbian?
A. The answer to this very much depends on who’s asking. If it’s any of the above-mentioned ladies, the answer is an emphatic yes. The Birthday Party–era Nick Cave? No. Young Willem de Kooning? No. Labyrinth-era David Bowie? No. Bottle Rocket–era Luke Wilson? No. The Royal Tenenbaums–era Luke Wilson? Also no.
If the asker is yet another random Internet troll who literally believes, in this day and age, that it’s an insult to call someone gay—in a passive-aggressive manner no less—then the answer is whatever makes you the most uncomfortable, threatens your sense of self, and throws your tiny brain into a tizzy. So the answer is probably yes, I am a raging lesbian. All other askers I take on a case-by-case basis.
Okay, that’s enough for now. More later. In the meantime, enjoy these pictures of my haul this last Saturday from the antique store up the street from my house. That’s the other thing the South rocks, by the way. Antique stores.
As she uploaded her post, she looked across the library table at Travis. He was texting vigorously with a faraway expression on his face. He didn’t look carefree, per se. But as close to it as she’d ever seen him. Travis read a text and started giggling silently. He put his forehead on the table and shook with muted laughter.
His laughter was so infectious and jubilant, she couldn’t help but be taken in. “Okay, dude. What? Who are you texting?”
He wiped his eyes. “No one. Nothing.”
She regarded him with good-natured suspicion. “You are the world’s worst liar.”
Dill finished loading Ms. Relliford’s groceries in her car.
She reached out a shaky hand with a dollar. “Here you are, young man. Thank you so much for your help. Have a blessed day.”
Dill accepted the dollar and tucked it in his shirt pocket. “Yes ma’am, thank you. Have a blessed day.”
He took his sweet time walking the cart back into the store, relishing the brief moment spent outside before returning to the air-conditioned cold and slight smell of rotting meat and spoiled vegetables of Floyd’s.
Dill loved being on bagging duty on these early evenings in late September. The sun was still strong, but it lacked the vitality of the summer sun. It felt faded. He caught a subdued hint of cut grass wafting from somewhere. How was it possible for love of a place and hatred of it to exist so comfortably side by side?
As he approached the store, wrestling the cart (how did shopping carts always have at least one bum wheel?), a little girl rode the chipped, plastic coin-operated pony ride out front.
Dill smiled at her.
She giggled. “I’m riding the pony!”
“Yeah, you are! Good job, lil’ cowgirl!”
The ride stopped and the little girl swung her leg over the pony to dismount. In her rush she caught her sandal on a curl on the pony’s mane, and tumbled face-first to the hard concrete. She scraped her chin. She looked at Dill for a second with huge, blue eyes filling with tears.