Slices of Life: Pictures, Portraits, and Profiles

by Rose Annis

The only reason I ever talked to Bob was because he said he was going to drown those kittens. He already had captured three and he promised that as soon as he found all five, he would tie them in a bag and throw them in the river—the French Broad—it was just the other side of the highway. Those small mewling faces had an expiration date. I wrote down in my day planner “save kittens” as if I had something better to do.

“Bob”, I said. “This isn’t a just add water situation.”

Bob listened to Alex Jones every night and slept in a bus, a bus that had its front seat carved out and refashioned into a toilet. We met because I was living on what used to be his land. He had sold it six months previous to my friend Chad for 10,000 dollars in silver. Bob didn’t believe in banks. Or the government, or shirts apparently. He burned his social security card back in 1987 and still wandered our side of the mountain like it was his.

He called me Wendy. As in Wendy Darling. From Peter Pan. I told him I wasn’t maternal enough. He told me I reminded him of his daughter. He told all the girls that. A few times he tried to teach me to play horseshoes, but he would always stand too close to the stake, and we lived on a slope. The only direction the horseshoes would tumble was down.

Every few weeks Bob would say something about Jesus, or pussy, or the New World Order, and he would be banned from the property. Days would pass and we would forget that he was out there. Occasionally the putt-putt growl of his motor scooter could be heard out on the gravel road, and we would be satisfied that he hadn’t thrown himself into the river along with those kittens.