Giant Men and Violent Women

Bad Luck

PRESLEY ANN

"Well, I could've told you that wasn't going to end well if you just would've asked me," Hyacinth says, "but of course, you didn't, which I don't know why not. I have been married for seven months and am presumably in the exact position in life you wish to be very soon." She smiles and waves at someone as we get out of my golf cart.

Darling at dusk.

The Jesper boys, all three of them, are at the bottom of the town hall steps, playing and singing reggae-folk. They trying to become famous with an art form that is appreciated only inside of New England. Not that it matters. New Englanders seldom care about the rest of the nation. Being a big fish in a small pond suits them just fine. Plus, the young girls surround them now, smiling, swaying to the reggae beat. All a New Hampshire man needs is moose meat, reggae beats, a shot of tequila, and a cute face to be happy. Yes, the Jesper boys know exactly what they're doing.

The sun leans to the west now, causing the shadows to lean to the right. That's the way I tell time here—by how the shadows lean. That's the mountain way. Leaves the color of Georgia's red clay flicker to the street from vintage trees, like a red carpet, rolled out for us here in Darling, as the entire town drives downtown in their private golf carts. Keep your big, fancy black cars back at home. We've all got money. Nobody cares about yours.

Hyacinth and I along with the rest of Darling are heading to a town hall meeting. Boxer parks my golf cart among the other carts and prepares to wait outside for the meeting to finish with the rest of the prisoner-drivers. Throngs of residents exit their golf carts or are currently making their way to the front steps of the town hall.

Of course, the town of Darling has a building created for such a time as this, and it isn't a gray-slab building that also houses the water department and DMV. Darling's town hall building is a white structure with Grecian pillars on Main Street—the only relevant street in town. There's a giant American flag perched on the top of a steeple that can be seen from nearly anywhere in the town, becoming Darling's North Star.

"To get to downtown, just follow the flag," we tell visitors looking to grab some history and T-shirts.

The town hall's presence is that of authority and looks as though it should be the city hall of some small town. Here, justice is served and met. But this building was built under the direction of Minnie, Ashley's great-grandmother, and she is the only one allowed to authorize meetings in it. In case one didn't already know, Minnie is the Man.

Since Minnie called this meeting, the entire town has made it a point to show up. In fact, every business in Darling closed its doors at four forty-five today so that we all could make the five fifteen meeting that is to end promptly at five past six.

Darling High School has a football game in the nearby town of Chickapoo, which means that Darling will soon be a ghost town with tumbleweeds twirling across the street, looking for people to run into. They take their football seriously here in small mountain towns. In fact, three charter buses are waiting outside to take those of us who will be too drunk from canned ale to drive home.

But, before all the fun, comes the business. This town hall meeting.

Minnie is hosting the shindig, and since she's a regular in my kitchen, I already know what her talking points are tonight—the new neighbors at 176 Blueberry Way and a recently developed law blocking new neighbors.

This morning, I was at home, sitting in a spare bedroom that I turned into an office—though it looks more like an art studio than a home office. I have up-and-coming artists to thank for that. They've given me complimentary paintings throughout the years in a show of gratitude for marketing their work to my society—people who can and will buy art from an artist and not a home goods store.