Patchwork of sunlight highlighted the half cut timber and rolls of chicken wire. Sheets of paper covered in arcane formula fluttered back and forth in the wind.
Excavations were prompt–nobody knew what the town council was looking for but in the latest foray the five and dime had been reduced to a pit jagged with broken pipes.
The town council considered it forbidden. They tied him up and threw him back on the boat, fixing the ship’s wheel with a very nice mauve scarf donated by Mrs Wilson, so that the boat would hurtle out to sea.
After midnight many box trucks, swaying as if heavily laden, each covered with baroque graffiti, pulled up in front of the church. On an unseen cue all the back doors suddenly rolled up and dozens of people wearing rabbit costumes swarmed the large, carved, wooden doors.
The roof was a chaotic patchwork of communication relays, dishes, wires and other antennae. Once a week they’d see him up there stringing together something new while loudly singing Patsy Cline’s “I Fall To Pieces”.
At the cusp of the wharf, the widow MacKenzie threw him half a pack of cigarettes, and swore at him with eloquence created by decades of unrequited passion.
He raised his hand across the domain–his perhaps, in imagination, as a usurper of local custom and hauls of fish. He chewed tobacco and spat it into the streets.
One day several ships appeared, anchored off the rough, remote coast. At night, from shore, their lights were seen flickering and the sounds of an orchestra could be faintly heard.
The hour is nigh, they told him. Nigh, he thought. Pie, cry, sigh, bye, nigh. They were pretty dramatic about it.
Awards were handed out from the back of the shop. Winners were instructed to stand still against a lime green backdrop while the ragged, drunken owner took Polaroids.
“Night comes late on the island,” she said, handing him a gray pint of something, “not because of the latitude, but because we will it to be so.”
They watched the filmstrip mutely, lulled into strange, lazy eroticism by the gentle repetitive bing.
When the leather-scrap man came around the children and the dog hid under the old shed in the cool dirt.
Sheering happened once a season, and the entire town came to watch. Afterwards the old men were brought back to their tree houses in a cart drawn by goats.
Whenever the church bells in town chimed he would begin a long, violent tirade of swearing. He stopped when the bells stopped, he claimed to remember nothing.