“PECKERWOOD” IS the universal term of derision drivers associate with Don. Some yell out as they drive by: “Peckerwood!” Others glare through windshields and mumble, but he can read their lips: “Peckerwood!” Don is not sure what it means. The sight of him standing at a bus stop just seems to infuriate people. He daydreams about driving around in a car, smiling at people on the street, maybe even offering them a ride.

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“UNWANTED DEAD OR ALIVE!” declared the crudely drawn poster scrawled with black magic marker on his filthy white t-shirt. He thought it was perfect guerilla art. Perhaps somebody would take a picture, make him famous on the internet, or at least give him a meal and couple nights shelter. But nobody caught the irony of it, not even the cops he rudely harangued on the street. It was true. He couldn’t even get arrested.

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I KNEW JESUS. Yeah, his friends called him Chuy. I met him in the ’70s at Oklahoma City Community College. We had a band called Los Salvadores del Ritmo. He fronted on button accordion and vocals. Nobody else had a chance with the ladies once they caught his act. Man! We kind of lost touch after re-hab. His ex-wife Frieda and the kids saw to that. I guess it’s for the best, but we had some good times back in the day.

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