Pete’s an Irish/German Americano,
born in Chicago, whelped in DC,
forged in the furnace of FLA,
lost his F and now's in just LA.
He has a collection of things and is a hardcore stuff enthusiast.
His fiction can currently be seen in Number Eleven and Cahoodaloodaling (probably by accident).
Before his liver failed, Pop tended to the garden. I tend to it now. I did what Pop would’ve done. I started seeds under lights, turned compost, plowed, planted, watered, weeded, and pruned. I’m even picking now.
Pop’s a writer. He taught college with Amy Hempel. He always said, “Read Amy Hempel. It’s important.” I never got on with reading all of her. But, Amy’s all right. She had dinner with us once, laughed with Pop all night and ate nothing but tomato salad. I’ve suspected something between the two ever since.
Our garden is one of about forty in a field with a couple of pecan trees out by where you pay your water bill. Pay a little and you get yourself a plot of land with water access and hoses, even. I grew all heirlooms. Cherokee purple, brandywine, black krim, and some little green zebras. I like heirlooms best cause they don’t have those eroticized names like “beefsteak” and “big boy” you get from the big-box store.
Pop needs a liver transplant, that’s certain. So I spend a lot of time out at the garden hoping for car crashes, thinking about slick, purple livers on ice, and stretching my ears to