Mike comes by to fix my wheezing 'puter again. I'm sitting there smoking an unfiltered, flicking ashes into a nicotined Lone Star can that's been there on the card table by the keyboard I don't know how long.
I swing my feet up out of the way and lay back so he can sit down on the cot in front of the blue screen and get to it.
He sets last night's styrocup of soup on the floor and one of the cats comes over to check it out. I don't remember feeding them this morning.
"Why don't you let me hook you up with Linux," he says. This old Windows 98 you're running is a virus magnet. Save you some grief in the long run."
"Naw, I'm good."
He inserts his cheat disk, taps a few keys to run the diagnostics, and after a few minutes, bling!, like magic I'm back on line.
"Stay off them porn sites," he says, "or you won't last ten minutes again with this old timer."
He gets up and I flip myself upright. "Whadda I owe you?"
"Would you settle for a six-pack? I think there's still one in the fridge."
"Sure," he says, so we sit out on the back porch, crack open a couple, and watch the river roll by for a while.
submitted at 6:58pm
27 April 2009