Tuesday, April 28, 2015

Trailer Park Lookout

It's his fulltime job.  Chief Henry Crow sits in an aluminum lawn chair at the edge of the trailer park, his gaze fixed on the horizon.  He wears a headband, blue jeans, and a double-breasted gray pinstripe coat from Brooks Brothers.  He is sixty-seven years old according to the Gregorian calendar.

Behind him, doublewide trailers crouch in neat rows, trusting in their motionless guardian.  They know he possesses magical powers to unwind storms, to twirl his index finger in a direction counter to the swirling vortex of a tornado while chanting sacred words.  It works every time.  The skill was taught to him by his father, who claimed that all weather is composed of spirits, many of which are open to peaceful negotiation.

The children in the park play tag while their fathers barbecue hamburgers.  Their mothers are hanging laundry to dry or creating internet companies on computers inside their doublewide homes.  The sky in the distance is an ominous gray, but no one is worried.  Henry Crow has their backs.

~William Hammett

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