"Well I woke up Sunday morning,
With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled through my closet for my clothes,
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
An' I shaved my face and combed my hair,
An' stumbled down the stairs to meet the day"
The first rays of the mornings rising son roused Jake from his fitful sleep. Pain had kept him up most of the night, tossing and turning in his bedroll. Bleary eyed Jake sat up somehow through his bodies protest of movement, and reached for the bottle of coors light left over from last night. He grabbed his pants and dug through the pockets till he found his pil box, and took out a vicodin. There was a unplesant bitterness to the pill as it was chewed up before being swallowed down with a mouthful of stale beer.
From the foot of the bed roll Bobbi Joe, Jakes old cur dog watched her master with eyes of soulful empathy only a dog could muster. Tenatively she edged towards Jake prodding at his thigh with her muzzle. Jake let his left hand fall to the dogs head to give her some ear rubs. Bobbi somehow sensing his aches and pains laid herself tenderly over Jakes knee, letting her warmth ease him into the day.
The couple of stale mouthfuls of beer just didn't cut it, so Jake mindful not to disturb Bobbi overly much, leaned over to grab a second beer from the cooler he kept close. Jake twisted the cap off the bottle taking a big swallow of the cold beer, letting it slowly ease down his throat. The cigarette pack was still in the breast pocket of the shirt he had worn last night. He grabbed a cigarette and lit it up taking long deep drags between swallows of beer as he waited for the pain to subside before he roused himself to start his working day.
There was little else to do as he waited but to just think things over in his mind. It was Sunday, and back home that would have meant fried chicken for supper after church, mashed potatoes, green beans, some homemade cornbread and his grandmothers white gravy. There was the idea that maybe he would go into town today and buy a chicken and fry it up tonight for dinner, but that was silly when he gave it a second thought. He was one person no sense in cooking a whole chicken for one person, and though he knew some people there wasn't anyone he really felt like he could ask to come share a meal with him. It suddenly hit him with a overwhelming sense of aloness that made him feel empty inside.
Bobbi watched her master, and friend with a soft gaze curious at him wiping away something from his eyes. That was something she hadn't seen before.
"On the Sunday morning sidewalk,
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cos there's something in a Sunday,
Makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothin' short of dyin',
Half as lonesome as the sound,
On the sleepin' city sidewalks:
Sunday mornin' comin' down"
Lyrics from Sunday Morning Coming Down by Kris Kristopherson
With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled through my closet for my clothes,
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
An' I shaved my face and combed my hair,
An' stumbled down the stairs to meet the day"
The first rays of the mornings rising son roused Jake from his fitful sleep. Pain had kept him up most of the night, tossing and turning in his bedroll. Bleary eyed Jake sat up somehow through his bodies protest of movement, and reached for the bottle of coors light left over from last night. He grabbed his pants and dug through the pockets till he found his pil box, and took out a vicodin. There was a unplesant bitterness to the pill as it was chewed up before being swallowed down with a mouthful of stale beer.
From the foot of the bed roll Bobbi Joe, Jakes old cur dog watched her master with eyes of soulful empathy only a dog could muster. Tenatively she edged towards Jake prodding at his thigh with her muzzle. Jake let his left hand fall to the dogs head to give her some ear rubs. Bobbi somehow sensing his aches and pains laid herself tenderly over Jakes knee, letting her warmth ease him into the day.
The couple of stale mouthfuls of beer just didn't cut it, so Jake mindful not to disturb Bobbi overly much, leaned over to grab a second beer from the cooler he kept close. Jake twisted the cap off the bottle taking a big swallow of the cold beer, letting it slowly ease down his throat. The cigarette pack was still in the breast pocket of the shirt he had worn last night. He grabbed a cigarette and lit it up taking long deep drags between swallows of beer as he waited for the pain to subside before he roused himself to start his working day.
There was little else to do as he waited but to just think things over in his mind. It was Sunday, and back home that would have meant fried chicken for supper after church, mashed potatoes, green beans, some homemade cornbread and his grandmothers white gravy. There was the idea that maybe he would go into town today and buy a chicken and fry it up tonight for dinner, but that was silly when he gave it a second thought. He was one person no sense in cooking a whole chicken for one person, and though he knew some people there wasn't anyone he really felt like he could ask to come share a meal with him. It suddenly hit him with a overwhelming sense of aloness that made him feel empty inside.
Bobbi watched her master, and friend with a soft gaze curious at him wiping away something from his eyes. That was something she hadn't seen before.
"On the Sunday morning sidewalk,
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cos there's something in a Sunday,
Makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothin' short of dyin',
Half as lonesome as the sound,
On the sleepin' city sidewalks:
Sunday mornin' comin' down"
Lyrics from Sunday Morning Coming Down by Kris Kristopherson