I think his name was Dave.

He was about five feet tall, maybe 110 pounds, wore cords and acrylic sweaters, and had to have been in his late 40s or early 50s. My journal says he was a bad speller. He came into the cafe practically every day that winter. Gia said he had a PhD in Roman history and was unemployed in the winter, but gave tours of the Black Hills in the summer.

Tours were hard to imagine on him. I never heard him speak.

He had wispy copper hair that covered his head in places. His scalp might've had burn scars. He wore small round metal glasses and had moist lightblue eyes. His nostrils were red and peeling. His nose was large, sloping, phallic.

A good nose.

He looked like a crying twig. Like weakness. But had been in the area, unattached, for longer than anyone at the cafe knew. At least fifteen years, though my vibe was longer.


That didn't register as strength with me back then, but for about ten years after I left the state he clanged around in my head like a sweaty blacksmith god.


I know less and less, though, these days, what to make of anything. A lot of people are returning to their original sizes.



Except you. It had to have been about 300 feet, but I only remember you taking four steps, probably hungover, across questionable temps garbage-bagging tons of ancient campsite, to reach the Department of Transportation trucks pulling in to pour pavement, my first day in September.

You sent the mastadons away without killing them.



I'll keep that one.