#duker

1. marks hands 😍🤤

Less than half the places that I go, blue men that have plain faces come out of the darkness, and show the curiosity for who I am, all they want to know, and all they care about, is how much money I get paid to do what I do. They want to know my grade. They want to know my rank…they believe they have captured me, and so they say what is your MOS. I’ve never once given them the answer to that question. I’d sooner tell my socks I love them as they slipped up on my feet.

But I know that some folks out there need something more concrete. So I will give whomever whatever they be a bit of truth that runs deep. 1983, Spring. I was already the leader of a dog pack. We were all the neighborhood mutts. We assembled together in my front yard, and then we ranged as near and a far as we pleased: we went through the Marsh, we went through the trees. We went in the fields among the cows. We went to the beach and then to the beach house, we went inside. We all ate the mouse. We hung out among the artwork and blanketed couches, blanketed in white linen, we crashed into each other over and over to see who was stronger and stronger. We had among us duchess and dukie, stranger and gypsy, rags, and Pepsi. Bubs was the leader.

Towards the end of that spring, came my parents’ friends, Dennis and Lexine, who were and perhaps still are MPs. They brought with them for us a set of keys. And a crate, and a mature German shepherd attack pup. Fully trained to do what he must. We were given his commands, they were in another tongue. One that felt right to me, but not to my dad. He did not tell me the words that he had but I knew them all the same somehow, by some mystery.

Our Spring now Summer pup’s name was Duker. And I and my old Man were now his master. My old man by rank, and myself as the faster caster. When he left for work, it was me and the gang and Duker. But Duker had to hang behind until he could recognize that he was not the alpha of the gang. So he remained on his chain that gave him enough range to get inches out of pissing range of his favorite tree. Soley because that tree was for me.

And each day I went to the tree and plainly for him to see, I pissed liberally all over that tree. And Duker would every single day bolt like lightning towards me, and I every single day turn to face his attack. And every single day the chain held true, and I smiled back at Duker. His face, which, under his hair was now blue. He choked himself through and through with rage, for what only I could do and that was how we got through that season of that year day in and day out, there was no fear, there was only truth. Duker this is me and that is you. This is my tree it is not for you. And Autumn came and Duker left and he never saw the tree again neither did he ever see me. But Duker and his progeny shall never forget that tree is only for me.

Ever thine, not yours mine,

Bubs

31B4OZ6,

Summer

1983

PS Duker’s progeny like every other dog in my gang has real blood. Duker himself remains at my side always. And he is still blue and so am I, for a decade later I became the Blue Devil. I’ll tell you why the Blue Devil’s blue long long long before I share with you Duker’s command that make him go zoom after you. But on any day by any whim for any reason whatsoever, however small or grand, I’ll speak those words just for fun, just to watch you run run run towards the sun.

Oh, and that is the fun I get to share with my son.