Larry had a small cot inside the woodshed. Electricity
came from an extension cord from the main house. It froze in the winter like a meat locker but when the fog and rain came in
the evening he would lay awake because of the back spasms and prostate
throbbing like the bass drum of Blonde Destiny’s first hit “Rock My Rocket” The
agony Larry described was comical because every day was a struggle with death.
One night he woke up and there was a mattress spring poking into his side. He
said he rode his bike to the hospital for more pain medication on account of
the bleeding but he was denied. “What does it matter if an old carpenter like
me suffers and dies in their waiting room?” Larry had asked.
Oggy stayed in the tool shed a few night, but there was
almost no room on the floor and Larry had to urinate into a plastic milk jug
“every hour on the hour” and Oggy had trouble staying asleep on account of the
troubling holocaust visions. So it had been safe from patrol drones but mostly
a miserable experience. Larry told bedtime stories in his coastal Maine accent,
laughing and groaning, as he waited for the pain killers to numb his throbbing
neck. The stories were similar to this one:
