Everything Begins And Ends At the Kentucky Club
“There’s always a finger that’s embedded somewhere in your brain, a finger that’s itching to pull the trigger of the gun that’s always around.
And when the trigger is pulled, you remember all the shit that ever happened to you: that awful day in second grade when you were in hurry and caught your foreskin in your zipper and had to be rushed to the hospital for an unplanned circumcision; that winter night when Rose slapped you again and again and again until your lip was bleeding, slapped you, ye...lled at you, kicked you, cussed at you—and all this for delivering the news that her husband had died in an accident; the time your father whispered that you were no good—even as he lay on his death bed.
It could happen anytime. The finger tightens, pulls, and a bullet goes flying through the air. That’s how remembering is. The gun, the trigger, the itchy finger, the bullet: a CD playing as I drove on a lonely road in New Mexico, Louie Armstrong singing a song about summer, about fish jumping and swimming holes and fishing poles—and me nodding, lipping the words, not really singing, just lipping.MoreLess
And when the trigger is pulled, you remember all the shit that ever happened to you: that awful day in second grade when you were in hurry and caught your foreskin in your zipper and had to be rushed to the hospital for an unplanned circumcision; that winter night when Rose slapped you again and again and again until your lip was bleeding, slapped you, ye...lled at you, kicked you, cussed at you—and all this for delivering the news that her husband had died in an accident; the time your father whispered that you were no good—even as he lay on his death bed.
It could happen anytime. The finger tightens, pulls, and a bullet goes flying through the air. That’s how remembering is. The gun, the trigger, the itchy finger, the bullet: a CD playing as I drove on a lonely road in New Mexico, Louie Armstrong singing a song about summer, about fish jumping and swimming holes and fishing poles—and me nodding, lipping the words, not really singing, just lipping.MoreLess
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