Woods.

I'm at work right now, and Devin just farted. He's carrying an empty garbage bag that makes a waxy sound when he walks. His uniform shirt is untucked in the back and there's a huge blotch of teal toner on his apron where a cartridge exploded yesterday.

"I'm real gassy right now, man."

Devin is a fantastic guy. Sometimes he just starts talking and he talks about the kinds of things that make you forget that you're working. We talk about being from different large cities (he's from Cincinnati, I'm from Chicago), and how their skylines compare to Louisville's. You can stand on Market Street next to the 50-some story building with the tall glass dome (I never remember what it's actual name is) and it makes the buildings feel like really tall people. Tall, quiet people who look down on the spots on your head that are balding.


He keeps saying he wants to transfer to the other FedEx Office downtown, and that would kind of piss me off. I'll miss when we talk about church, even though I haven't willingly gone to church in at least 10 years. We sing gospel really loud and puposely off-key.

I could take a trip with Devin, a camping trip. Maybe we could chip in and buy an old F150 or a Chevy Scottsdale, and a little camper that fits inside the truck bed. The screens on the windows would be filled with holes and fly carcasses. Wrappers from Hostess snacks are stuffed between seat cushions. We'd pull over every few hours to stretch in a field and pee on the roots of a dying tree.

We'd pull up to a creek and skinny beagles and bloodhounds would run out of the bushes nipping at our ankles. The sun would be resting on the top of a mountain like a lemon cookie on top of a scoop of ice cream. I would walk circles around our tent, pounding small hooks into the ground with a small garden shovel. Devin takes food out of his pack: pretzels and raisins thrown together in plastic baggies, cans of generic soda held together in plastic rings, salt packets and honey mustard from a truck stop outisde of Owensboro.


I eat until there's nothing but salt in the bottom of the bag. Devin's asleep with his head resting on a patch of moss. His jacket lays across his legs and his feet twitch when the wind circles around the tent.


We wake up the next morning. Inside of the tent is wet with morning. I pour a bottle of water on my face for a shower and dress outside the tent. Devin pokes his head out of the tent.


"Let's go fishing. We can go where those dogs came from. I heard them barking last night."


I button up my shirt and pull a cap down to my eyebrows.


"We don't have poles. I don't like fishing."


"There was a bait shop somewhere before we pulled off the highway. We can get cheap poles from there, and dig up worms on the shore."


Dogs start barking. Their feet shuffle. They lick rocks, sniff piss stains on trees drool from jowels. Devin walks off. I can hear him climbing into trees, breaking the logner branches off towards the top. He's adiment about fishing.


I sit on a pile of undershrits and unlace our shoes. Devin returns with the sticks and we wrap the tips with shoelaces. We walk to the shore. Still muddy and damp from dew. Worms writhte around. I pick up a handful and tie the plastic tip of the lace around their mid-section. The worm isn't enough weight to make the line sink, it floats near the surface.

Scales from bluegill whip around like the ribbon blowing loose from a girl's ponytail. They swim by uninterested, occasionally nibbling at the drowning worm tail.

Devin digs the end of his pole into the ground and leans back, "20 bucks says the fish think the bait is fake."

"Fishing and hunting isn't fair for animals. I'd like to see a deer run through the woods with a gun so if he came across a gamesman, he could fight back."

We keep fishing.