…gathered around the table, we trade anecdotes and witty replies . . . just a bunch of guys hanging out, who also happen to be famous — all except me, of course. I can’t believe I’m here, can’t believe that everyone just assumes I belong…
…he’s lying in the shore, dozing in the early evening breeze. The surface of the lake stirs faintly, the ripples slowly moving toward us. He has his hat over his face, one leg resting on his upturned knee.
A long dark thread is knotted around his big toe, stretching out over the water to a little rowboat bobbing ten or fifteen yards offshore…
…I stand in the water, soaked to the knees, reaching out to pull the boat in. It’s small, maybe four feet long. Almost like a child’s toy. Antique. The rough wood stained by the water and by time,
In the shallow bottom of the boat are mason jars, each filled with small stones or soil. A few have both. The soil is very dark, dark as coffee grounds. The stones, very pale.
These are my jars and I am glad to see that none of them have been broken. As I lift one out, it slips through my fingers and spills stones and soil in the shallow water at the bottom of the boat.
“Great,” I mutter. “Because that’s what I needed right now: A jar of mud,”
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