One Born Every Minute
I like to whistle. Something about little diddies made up of my breath helps to calm me when I’m sad. Invisible music.
I am sad today, and I’ve been sad for the last few days. I’ve lost my puppy, Mr. Scraptastic.
He’s fond of trashcans and sewer lines. He’ll run for miles after a ball and sleeps inches from and within my heart.
I whistle “How Much is that Doggy in the Window.”
I see some guy dressed in clashing dacyron looking in a trashcan across the street. God damn he is ugly.
“Hey we about ready to go?”
“Yeah Gritz, let’s go.”
“So we gots ourselves a target?”
“I think I just found one.”
“That faggy butterfly across the street…”
“What’s he doing? Is he fooking whistlin’?”
We cross the street. Gritz tightens his fingers around the grip of the bat. I shift my knife to my right hand.
I like to whistle. I wish somebody would come help me look for my puppy.
Here comes two guys now…