he told big stories about what was really a very small life, because he’d had more expectation for himsel. he had hoped for more than dyeing in a trailer
outside an oil field, alone, drunk, amid fast food wrappers and twenty year old tit magazines.
to everyone who knew him as red, he had been a great talker, a teller of exploits, great ones whether he was drunk, or you were, it didnt matter. we all thought thry were lies, but they were told so well, we just werent sure. in the end, does it matter?
he had a small life, and an unremarkable death.
i kept one of those old magazine covers. someday maybe someone will wonder why.