He sat at his desk while I sat at the edge of his bed while he dictated the story of his life in the rodeo. My mother left me there alone with this hundred year-old rock biter; to be inspired by the gait of his dustbowl legacy or something. She didn’t once note or amble the risk that he may have had a propensity to saddle-swank & John Wayne Gacy— to either lasso or rope trick. He had this glass eye that shimmered a supernatural green, I did not pay attention to anything but that and the beacon slit of light coming from the door ajar. After what seemed like staring into a microwave, how radiation confiscates the ethereal dial, I finally spoke up with interest when I realized that the beginning of his story took place in 1912. Wait, I said. Were you on the Titanic? There was a brief silence followed by a long sigh. His answer, was of course, No.