Above the Fall

A long day at work. I came home to a refrigerator of cold leftovers. My housemates' dinner dishes from the night before were still on the counter. Ants had arrived before the mold. I made a comment to one of the residents about the ants. He failed to make the connection between pests and dirty plates. I was too tired to spell it out for him. I left, headed over to Winooski with my camera to find a trail along the river.

The river raged, brimming with snow melt. Timbers and debris piled on the dam. Chunks of ice bobbed among the branches and tires and whatever else the river dragged down with it. A curt wind stiffened my bones. Across the way a warm glow spilled out the windows of a bar. I settled for the company of a beer rather than go back to the house.

Two guys, toothless and tattooed, stood holding pool cues off in a dim corner. "How's the weather?" they asked with thick southern accents. "Chilly," is all I said. The barkeep set my beer in front of me, "That'll be seven dollars." One beer, seven bucks. Could this get any worse? Probably a not too distant cousin of the pool players sat down two stools away. Same toothless tattooed tribe. He reeked. My eyes were watering. I drank half the beer and left. I'll take my chances with the ants.