John and DeWayne : What one might call a review

April 1, 2009


John and DeWayne

by Rachel Shine


Maybe you’re at a gas station in Wyoming.  That you’re out of gas means nothing to you.  You’re quite sick of that old Saab story anyway.

Behind the general store, full of fishing lure and pop in glass bottles, you think you could camp here – write, paint, sing, whathaveyou – forever.  Thus inspired, you sit down in a sunpatch and take out a book but the man who runs the store and, incidentally, lives in the back with his rotweiler, emerges to hang a raccoon skin in that same spot of sun and tells you he is a chicken and offers you a sandwich.  He tells tales of when he was human while the two of you eat your p.b. and j’s.  That is John Bellows.

When you’ve finished your sandwich you bid farewell to your new friend and start hoofin’ it.  Not too long after, a van pulls to a stop.  The driver greets you warmly, happy to offer a ride.  Encouraged to sit in the back and enjoy the trip – not just anticipate the destination – you read one of the Greek tragedies sliding around back there with you and the driver sings songs from our country’s days of infancy.  Soon you and DeWayne Slightweight reach the Rocky Mountains, better humans for eachother’s company.

As the sun sets and the bends in the mountain roads become more threatening, your small company looks for a place to bed down.  A neighborhood bar appears around a bend and the sweet bartender who serves you Pabst offers her couch to the two of you.  You close the bar and shuffle to her small woodland home  and fall asleep with thoughts of the Ramayana as she practices cello until the sun rises.  Thank you, Helen Money, your dream gnomes chime.



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