“What your momma name you? You can call me what you like.” Every skinny’s a mystery, gotta make it hard some how. “Sit your narrow ass down hot shot, I’ll solve yours right now.”
“Got a girlfriend don’t you boy?” Nervous hands can’t lie. Married men don’t ask how much, single one’s ain’t buying. One day you’ve got everything. Next day it’s all broke. “Let Miss Trixie sit up front. Let her wipe your nose.”
Working for the money like you got eight hands, flat on your back under a mean old man, just thinking happy thoughts and breathing in. Between your momma’s drive and daddy’s belt it don’t take smarts to learn how to tune out what hurts more than helps.
Pretty girls from the smallest towns get remembered like storms and droughts that old men talk about for years to come. I guess that’s why they give us names. So a few old me can say they saw us rain when we were young.
“Which one’s the birthday boy?” she said. “I ain’t got all night. What your momma name you? You can call me what you like.”
Author: Mike Cooley, DBT