The Shire - Walter E. Ledwith

When my friends call from New York, and I tell them I am living in a trailer park in Florida, they imagine me in a rundown single-wide with neighbors that have bears chained in the front yard, whiskey breath, wearing yesterday's clothes. Of course, my cracker neighbors consume copious amounts of alcohol and are copulating around the clock, stopping only to eat, sleep, and defecate. It is presumed the children of these folks are low functioning victims of alcohol fetal syndrome, parented by people who themselves need parenting."

Malcolm called from Angkor Wat.

"Cambodia is beautiful this time of year. I'm having brunch in the garden of my forest hotel. . . . and I won't even tell you what's on the menu." It was almost midnight in Florida, and I had drifted off in my easy chair, tea untouched. I was going to turn in, but decided to take the call. I could hear the birds in the background, cawing, whistling, having a boisterous conversation. In my semi-somnolence, the swish of their wings caused me to flinch as I dipped my tea bag, gathering my thoughts.

"Exploring your spiritual side?" I mumbled, lighting a cigarette.