All he could see were the green benches and the parking meters spaced along the curbs. He realized that they were advancing, marching forward in open ranks, a battalion of emaciated soldiers with ugly faces beneath odd-shaped foreign helmets. And across the forehead of every one of them was tattooed in red letters the word VIOLATION. Jackson shut his eyes, opened one of them and squinted.
All he could see were the green benches and the parking meters spaced along the curbs. He realized that they were advancing, marching forward in open ranks, a battalion of emaciated soldiers with ugly faces beneath odd-shaped foreign helmets. And across the forehead of every one of them was tattooed in red letters the word VIOLATION.
he pondered the tactical situation. Had he done a violation? Did he dare make a violation? Had a violation been committed against him? And how does it come about, these god damned violations? Is a violation done to you—are they made—or do you commit them?
Koko is the camp barber. On weekends he takes the trash can and lays a board over it for a seat. He puts a towel around your neck and goes to work with a pair of old, worn-out clippers and a pair of dull scissors. If you have a quarter you give it to him. Otherwise you owe it to him. If you are one of those who never gets a money order from home then he does it free.
cottonmouths, testing his footing in the swampy ground. But he had
he climbed down from the bunk and slid his legs through
Why Koko, baby. I’m surprised at you. You know I never tell anything except what God loves. And that’s the Truth.