the white washed rocket to heaven

2.2.
Bart climbed into the cab of his truck while balancing a basketball and thermos full of Annie’s gourmet coffee in his giant sized left hand. He had always been agile of body, and had swooned his wife with his smooth skill. He knew he could take his time with his drive down to the high school on the Marshall bypass, so he switched on the radio and waited for the engine to heat the cab, and defrost the window a bit before he took a scrapper to shluf off the remaining bit of early spring onto the ground below the cab of the truck.
He and Annie had moved to Marshall 7 years earlier, wanting to get away from Atlanta, and claim a piece of the American dream. They lived off of Main Street in a one street town, feeling happy as a pair of exotic love birds let loose out of Noah’s Arc. Annie took up a job at the new library that had just opened on off the bypass, and Bart exploited his natural skill as the finest PE teacher Madison High School had seen since ’74, the year the team got busted for taking truck stop speed pills.
Life was good. Bart had to admit he had arrived in Marshall at the right time. There were already the beginning signs of urbanism seeping into town, and he liked it as long as it didn’t turn into Charlotte or Asheville. He liked being able to get fancy coffees, and organic produce at the farmer market. He liked chatting up the skinny guy who owned the gallery down on Main Street. Sometime he and the skinny dude would would sneak a little illegal puff behind the coffee shop. Everybody would just turn their heads around in the other direction, like they had just heard the dinner bell ring, and were eager to go on home for fluffy biscuits that form best by touching each other whilst baking.

Bart started the engine. Always a blessing with a diesel during this time of year. He made his way up to the bypass at 5 miles an hour, waving at ole Macy Roberts, who ran the DMV and resided as the mayor of Hot Springs, North Carolina.

He could have gone pro at one point, but he felt he had more artistic skill that needed rendering. So He went on to take community college classes in in scuplture and
design after his stint at the University of Georgia. He didn't feel riding on physical skill alone could form him as a man. Perhaps this was his heel of downfall he mumbled to the river late at night, when he thought his woman disapproved of their small life. He sometimes paced the warped boards of their modest investment till the river led him out to her to speak of moonlight and hope.
The French Broad River ran wide and was impressive. People ogle over the Colorado, who must be a manly gendered river, due to its exciting raw white water appeal. But the French Broad is viewed as wide and slow, but is not without excitement. Many folks take their boats out and ride. Madison County has made a bit of an income from her firm but risky hand. The night before, she pulled Bart out by his early spring gym pants, and told him he was doing' okay. He wondered if this was alright, having a river as his mistress. He rolled a cigarette and pondered if he would get sick standing out gazing at the river in his wet socks and no proper undergarmets.

Bart was out on the court shouting at the guys in uncle kind of way. He was strict but wasn't afraid to praise. The girls from the highshcool Future Farmers of America got out class, and were egging the boys on. Bart turned towards the gals, wondering if they were ditching class. One of the girls had letters painted on her
eye lids that said MUHS. He paused to ruminate on her dedication, when the ball up and hit smacked him upside the head.

He woke up at the rural medical center feeling her had been brushed with powder sugar
like cookies done for Christmas. He was deeply thirsty, and noticed his wife lingering over him like what you would expect. He didn't much care, and was deeply thirsty, recalling feelings of heavenly wings brushing up his body like a massage he had once
gotten in college.
But there were no angels around, in fact the nurse was man, a friend of his he had seen at Easter partys and occasionally at the feed and seed getting early morning coffee’s.
He took the sup of water, and felt somewhat let down. He had hoped for Gabriel after his funny dreams of God and hope.

When he got home Annie made a quiche, and set him up in a window so he could look out at the river. He wasn’t sure why they were going to all this fuss, he hadn’t cracked his head. But he was relieved for the pause in time, thinking it would be nice to spend the afternoon looking out at the French Broad. Annie went back to work, and he stared out like a love sick teen, wishing he had flat bottomed boat he could haul out onto the river.

Words are sometimes like numbers, he said outloud to himself. And God talks to us everyday in this manner. He found this satisfying in his gut, and went to sleep thinking of numbers and codes that might express his love for a creator that made such a firm but risky life.
The next morning his head hurt like Hell.
He was in the shower when he noticed that he could hear the water droplets speeding by his ears like rockets. If he focused he could hear seeds inside the earth begining to wake up and consider spring as something to come hither for. He was hearing stuff, and needed to dull the sound.
He ran out to the shed and started flinging helmets of all sorts on the ground after
he has tried them on. Nothing seemed right until he found an orange builders hat.
yeah. that would work just dandy. Bart put the hat on, and scurried back to the house with his bath towel wrapped around his waist like a terry cloth hula skirt.

He had called in to work, claiming a personal day, and planned on having a
long weekend to do some organizing of the yard and personal contempation.
Besides, his newly developed bionic hearing was mighty distracting. The thought of listening to basketballs bounce off a back board brought Bart a special kind of anguish that made him feel like puking on Annie's new duvet cover.
So he sat in bed with his silly hard hat on trying to come up with something constructive to do. The hat seemed to dull the sounds of the pregnant river and thawing ground. The hat seemed to help him focus. Well, tarnation nellie, i guess i will build Annie that dove cage she has been pining for. it would set her needs at ease for another few months, till she needed to send away for the winged representations of optimisism.
to be continued