Fish Fry (#3) The Sparrow's Nest (#2) Potter Boyle's Cold Shoulder(#1)

Fish Fry (Last Project)

White as a filleted fish, Jude danced Soca with the “Trini’s.” Chatter while the tilapia was in the batter. Beer, rum, and rye - We enjoy the Fish Fry.


The Sparrow's Nest (Project 2) #makeourmark

“Oh c’mon! Are you kidding me, I can’t even enjoy a lunch break.”
“I’m coming!” Jack screamed as he rushed through the garage to the gas pumps of the Sparrow service station in Lars, Maine.
“Ok, that’s enough,” he says under his breath.

There are no vehicles at the two gas pumps. Just a scrawny kid named Anthony on his white and blue BMX bike. Laughing to the top of his lungs and pointing to Jack at a nearby parking lot after riding over the two driveway hose signals. Every weekend afternoon shift Anthony would ride his bike over the signals, and Jack would warn him that one of these times he’d catch him and take the bike.

Anthony was ten and an only child with a single mom. He found a place of social comfort by hanging out at the Sparrow. The employees thought of him as a nice kid, he would always help out, do odd jobs. Everyone welcomed him except Jack, who didn’t want to be bothered on his shifts.

As he sat on his bike, he moved his handle bars towards the hoses like a submarine radar and torpedoed himself. As he approached his target Jack intercepted and the DING turned into a HONK. A car slammed its brakes as it was coming off the road and Jack grabbed him while the bike hit the island.

“Where did you come from?” said a trembling Anthony. “You’re going to be ok, don’t be scared. I saw the car coming and so I ran out to stop you,” said Jack.
“Why do you care now?” Anthony mumbled as he placed his hand on his forehead looking up. “How ‘bout you come in and we’ll get some chips and pop? How’s that sound Anthony?”


Potter Boyle's Cold Shoulder(Project 1)
Brisk and bitter cold to the bone Potter Boyle started his morning with all intentions to hitch a ride along Route 92. He wanted to forget the past and pale pavement below his feet.
Twelve miles seemed like twelve years as he turned again to face another vehicle. His right hand extended, four fingers pressed to his palm, and thumb reaching to the bleak blue sky like an antenna searching for a signal. 
Another vehicle passes as Potter turns forward and brings his hope in from the salted cracked white line that separates him from a ticket to ride.
Three hundred miles to go from pointless to point better. Potter’s brother-in-law promised him a job if he ever made it to Crown in eastern PA.

Potter Boyle was departing with nothing on his back but problems.

Boyle was a cook at Humphry’s Restaurant in Terryopolis, PA. He met Liz there his first day of work, she was a waitress. They were together as a couple for five years. Potter arrived in town to make some money, then travel to another city. He was a vagabond with ideas to work and see new places. He was also a nice guy who made people laugh, this was his charm. This is the person Liz fell in love with. All she ever wanted was someone who was going to give her love and attention. He got caught up in the passion of meeting someone in a new city. She offered a place to stay in her second floor efficiency apartment. He moved in and the romance rolled out like a red carpet.
The divide began when he wanted to travel across the US. Potter crafted a plan that he was sure Liz would accept. Part One: Save money for six months in the amount of the rent they were paying now as an emergency fund. Part Two: Money for fuel, food, and lodging. Part Three: Work in big city restaurants and bars for a disposable income to explore the local culture.
Potter just wanted to grow as a person; to live and learn while he was young and before he settled down.
Doubt crept into Liz’s mind about leaving Terryopolis, the only place she ever knew. This is the place she had her roots.
While Potter was reading about travel and saving money, Liz was spending their money at the bar. Drinking his dreams away.

One night Liz didn’t come home. When she arrived home the next morning, she told Potter that she hated life. He wasn’t sure if she had an affair, the guilt of possible infidelity, or the weight of not loving him finally crashed. He rushed down the stairs to his truck. The battery was dead, “Fuck it, this isn’t what I wanted.” Took his keys which also held Liz’s apartment key and threw them at the entrance. Liz looked at the window and Potter yelled, “This truck is like your fuckin’ city - go to hell!” As she moved from the window lights came on in the building.

And so Potter Boyle and his sadness walked a few streets to Route 92 and left with ’Part Three’ to find his dreams of travel.


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