Saturday, June 2, 2012
There were eleven cars scattered about the front yard, and he judged three of them likely to run. The old Budweiser sign was where he remembered it, to the right of the door. It sagged a little, like maybe the fasteners were finally pulling out of the rotted siding.
Up on the roof, chunks of tree branch lay there, mouldering; left over from last season's hurricane. The shingles were covered in moss; a first step in nature's reclamation of a once-proud property. When the wind was right you could smell the freshness of growing things. When it was wrong, there was just the stench of the trash pit out back. That was enough to make a dog gag.
As soon as old Jeb opened the door, he knew he was home. He'd lost a few teeth since the last time he'd seen him, and he was a little more stooped, but otherwise the old sonofabitch hadn't changed a bit.
My newest book, Raising Cubby, is on sale in just six more months . . . .
Posted by John Elder Robison at 10:16 PM