Maggie’s Farm April 23, 2010Posted by Mark Folse in cryptic envelopment, Toulouse Street.
There are no crows in Laurel, nothing but the scratchy laughter of blackbirds for four days in the trees across from another template perfect Marriott and when I go out for a bedraggled morning smoke the blackbirds all cackle because I forgot my hairbrush and didn’t pack a hat and my hair is all Grow A Magic Crystal Tree and these popcorn fat, mall parking lot blackbirds aren’t afraid of scarecrows.
The Oklahoma travelers in patent nostrums for all your business problems, the ones I saw sitting in the vacant breakfast bar drinking coffee and laughing at 11:30 last night just stare or look away quickly because it’s clear I’m not really one of them. So I go refill my coffee and go back out for another smoke because frankly I prefer the company of the blackbirds.
Soon enough we’ll all disperse to our various office parks and by then I’ll look just like them. I’ve perfected my disguise so that it is undetectable in broad daylight. Unless, of course, this notebook falls out of my bag and you pick it up and discover that while I’m dressed in the chinos and logo polos of my fellow travelers, laptop slung over my back, inside these pages I’m not taking any orders.