Chapter 7:
I have to lift my britches up goin' across the yard.
Dang weeds are eatin me alive, but I'm fighter.
Nothin's gonna stop me from seein my dame.
She's quite the looker from far away, so it's gotta be better up close.
That ol' porch is rickety and needs a good painting.
If my back didn't hurt so bad, I'd do it myself.
Maybe I'll offer to get one of those neighborhood hoodlums to do it.
They ain't got nothin' else better to do. Besides playin that rappity-rap music.
So I reach the door, and I swear, my hands are shaking.
Darn cat chow is heavier than it looks.
Ten pounds of Friskies all for animals I don't even like.
This is killin' my Social Security check.
Damn government.
Damn cats.
I knock once. Twice. Three times.
The smell is overwhelming, so I hold my breath.
Suddenly, the door opens slightly.
I squeeze my legs together.
Those brown peepers are the prettiest things I've ever seen in Georgia.
But my God.
I've forgotten to use the john...