Mike Itaya
Pen Pals from Ezekiel (Webelo)
Last month at school, they gave out pen pals. I got a fellow named Charlemagne, from Auburn, Alabama, who sent me a picture with his first letter. He was this runty fellow who lived on a farm, which he swore was a “hellhole with no TP.” I took a liking to Charlemagne. We became blood brothers and sent each other bloody communiqués to make it bonafide. But things took a tailspin when I forwarded him my “Ezekiel, Mississippi Letters,” my account of this shitbag town and what all goes on here.
And I believe Charlemagne's mama got a hold of my bizarre epistolaries then flipped her fucking lid. I got a final post, then never did hear from them again:
Charlemagne and his family do not live here. They have moved to Canada. As such, Charlemagne is not your blood brother. He used Heinz 57 to seal the deal.
It was one thing to lose my friend, but to’ve been blood brothers under false pretense is how I ended up on the dark road.
Lordyjay, I’m just a ten-year-old nothing with a postcard covered in dried ketchup.
So much happens in Ezekiel, that I believe the citizens are more cursed than the place itself is.
Like this time when I was nine, me and R.T. (Pa) went on a father-son trip out west to Yosem-mite. I wanted to see all them mountains, especially one called Craterface. We pulled over off the road to take a gander. Yep. There were all kinds of folks out there lookin’. Near the Craterface summit, there was this dude in a blue bunny costume, free climbing. And watching him climb higher and higher made my heart soar, like if that bunny got to the top, there was no tellin’ where all he might get to. A person could take from that a mighty fine lesson about life. At least that’s what I was thinkin’, when that bun just kind of let go, and all of us watched him take a header from on high, and seconds later when it was all over was the first time I felt the dark road open up inside me. I wondered who was in charge of that bun, who was supposed to make him behave. Afterwards, R.T. bought me a Yosem-mite t-shirt, and while two days before I would’ve slapped my own bottom for such a prize, I didn’t know who’d want a shirt from a place where such things happened.
Mike Itaya is the editor-in-chief of DIRTBAG and writes about dirtbags, always. @DirtbagWriting
