Grackle boxing isn’t a skill, it’s an art. Well I guess it’s not that either, but it’s definitely one way to kill an asphalt-melting hungover Sunday afternoon. July in Texas baby, if you didn’t laugh you’d cry. Yesterday we were out on the lake with a thermos of grapefruit vodka and now we’re sunburned and dehydrated and I’m pretending you still love me and I didn’t see you making out with El Jefe behind the corndog truck. But whatever, it’s all good.
So we get a pitcher of margaritas and bottomless chips and salsa and post up on the patio with our rig, the box and the stick and the fucking twine, where did that even come from, who knows. Who came up with this Charlie Brown shit? I honestly can’t remember. It’s just one of those things we’ve been doing forever, like breakfast at Joe’s Bakery or full moon swims or crying in the shower remembering how it used to be. Oh wait, that last one’s just me. Anyway, we’ve never actually caught a grackle. What would we even do with it? That’s not the point.
The point is, if we sit here long enough and get drunk enough maybe a portal will open to another world, a world of possibility where we don’t have to keep pretending we’re just friends. Where I say what I mean and it’s exactly what you want to hear, and we kiss like in the movies and ride off into the sunset, and also you can rent a one-bedroom for less than a grand in this town, it’s like 2007 all over again. I know it’ll never happen. I’ve got a better chance of catching one of these crafty-ass birds.
But I keep on trying, because I’m a greasy scavenger too. You know what they say, hope floats. Just like shit. It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do. So I’ll keep picking you up and paying your way and not saying anything about it when you disappear on me. Call me pathetic, you’re still the prettiest ghost I know. Maybe one day I’ll get lucky. You miss one hundred percent of the grackles you don’t box. Or something like that. You know what I mean. You always do.
Later on, when the pitcher is empty and the chips are too salty and we get sick of the sun breathing down our necks, we’ll call it quits. We’ll go inside and order a couple of Lone Stars, because who needs flavor when you’re just trying to stay buzzed. We’ll say our saluds and clink our bottles together before we take the first sip. Then I’ll head to the jukebox and play “Wasted Days and Wasted Nights,” and most likely you’ll roll your eyes and say you need to take a piss. Or maybe just this once, you’ll get up and dance with me. And for the next three minutes, I’ll be the happiest loser in town.
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Favorite Drink: Classic daiquiri
2 oz light rum + 1 oz fresh lime juice + 3/4 oz simple syrup
Combine in a cocktail shaker with ice and shake until well chilled
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Sarah Bradley lives in Austin, Texas, where it’s almost always too hot or too cold. She’s an alumna of the American Short Fiction workshop, and her stories have appeared or are forthcoming in the Plentitudes Journal, the Iron Horse Literary Review, and Cloves Literary. Find her online: @sarahbooradley
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image: Ashley Beresch. Check out more of her work on Instagram @ashleyberesch
Rejection Letters 