Art is a mirror. If you don't like what you see, look out the window instead. — Darla T. Varney
Ort is the one who's struggling, not me. I'm all show and rehearsing my shtick for future use. This conversation will make it in The Book someday! I do listen to what Ort tells me, though, what with his double-talk and veiled references. Ort has honest-to-God debilitating coping mechanisms. How else to explain not stepping outside for a year save to crouch in a corner of his backyard under cover of moonlight? Eating fast food delivery while engaged in the sedentary activity of building model tanks plus their historically accurate dioramas (history buff that I am, btw)? Ort is one of the kindest, most sensitive people I know. Folks like that get eaten alive on this rock. I do what I can to soften the blow of reality for him by being a 21st century version of Fanny Brice, but that only serves as a balm for a couple of hours each month. I hate to think his role outside the circuit is to be a carbon-based ATM and guinea pig for that damned Buford. I may not be the most shining example of what a friend is supposed to be, but I don't leech off my buddies. But Ort's definitely packed on a few pounds here in the past few months. And his color's gotten really bad. I barely recognized him when he walked up to the truck the other day with balled up baby wipes in his fist.
Semi-Daily Scribbles 
Leave a comment