The Guest House
Over there is the guest house, a two-man tent on the back-yard fence line with a telescope for star gazing.
I’ve got a sign down by the road, like kids selling lemonade: “Come spend the night in our guest house. Weekly rates.” I painted a big red arrow on a 4×8 sheet of warped plywood pointing up the dirt road to our tar-paper shack.
The Mrs. wants no part of it. She says it’s my fault we’re white-trash poor without a pot to piss in. But when’s the last time she went star gazing? She comes home from waitressing all day at Granny’s Slop Joint and flops down in front of the TV. She watches cartoons, her IQ is so low she can’t even make sense of FOX News.
She says I should get a job, and whenever she says that I go out on the back porch and stare off at the tent, silhouetted against the night sky.
