For two weeks I ate the same sandwich from the 5 lb butt I smoked, pulled pork with pickles. Then I started ordering albums off Amazon without keeping track, and every day it was like Christmas as I backfilled my collection from the 80s I gave away. I got a new sleeping bag and an all-weather shelter that’s basically a $200 tarp but looks cooler. The kids started school and all four of us spent the day on Microsoft Teams in separate rooms. The bandwidth was fucked. We all blipped out and froze or got dropped. I fantasized about what I’d do when my contract ends in late September. I’d be going out in the woods with my new shelter and sleeping bag. As much beer as I could carry. A book and my phone.

Everything in the yard was limp and starting to sag. I didn’t have the time or energy to water. The frisbee and football sat on the bench untouched and I left them there like stage props. All we had to do to unclog the unwanted food in the deli section of the fridge was to unpack all the leftover cheese, tortillas and herbs but that seemed too hard so we just kept adding more shit on top. I picked the lint out of my navel and finished my wine shirtless on the chaise lounge as the hose gagged and the coals smoked. The corn was getting tough. We had our first morning with fog. I saw three coyotes in the morning run down the road, one with a spotted tail. I forgot the difference between the spelling, tale or tail, and dropped the shades when it got dark to keep out the moon. I dreamt I was at my old job but didn’t recognize anyone, not a soul.

Categories: Memoir, prose, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, journal writing, mid-life crisis, pacific northwest, William Pearse writer