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SHOW TIME Willie Joe sits in a cane-bottom chair on his front porch and awaits the opening scene. A police siren shrills in the distance, a train whistle blows from the crossing on Lamar, and a radio somewhere plays the blues. A mangy mongrel sidles into view, snifffs the malt liquor bottles thrown over the fence last night by Willie's shiftless neighbor, then trots toward Hardeman's Barbeque on the corner. A Mustang cruises by, the staccato bass dissonant with the background laments of Keb Mo. Maudean from three houses down steams past leaving a trail of Toujour Moi in her wake. Purse clasped tightly under her arm, she flaps a hand at Willie who nods. He doesn't have to consult his dented pocketwatch to know she's going to catch the noon bus at the stop near the end of the street. Rising slowly, hitching his pants, Willie Joe totters inside. It's intermission but he'll be back, front row center, for the second act. |
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