First Saturdays were a time to tell the old tales -- again. No one minded they were old and the words were frayed as grandmother's quilt. First Saturdays were a time to get together and remember, again.
Remember to speculate and stake out a position on how Rune had got his name, for example. Some said it was a result of some wispy spider web of history that led back to Scotland or Ireland or one of those places. Others scoffed as they sipped their beer and preferred to point out that Rune's pa and ma were in agreement that boys knew better about boys and girls knew better about girls and so, in a mark of their matrimonial devotion, they agreed that if the baby en route were a boy, pa would name him. If it had been a girl, ma would have done the honors.
On the night in question, after much of the groaning and screams had settled down and ma was relieved of her load and pa was drunk in a corner, someone told pa, "Luke, it's a boy. You want to name him?" And pa looked up, bleary as an old oil filter, and hummed out what sounded like "ggnnnnuuune," which the questioner, also heavy with joke-weed juice, transmitted with assured but uncertain grandeur: "The boy's name will be 'Rune.'"
None of it mattered much as the years passed. The name served as well whether uttered by friend or foe. "Rune, you asshole!" or "Rune, you are one smart fellow!" both served their purposes. Rune, who was stuck with the name, didn't think to complain. He got his beer on the first Saturday of the month, same as anyone else in Disgorged.
It was one of the old, frayed tales.
Increasingly, my own fictions gain a certain ascendancy. What's the matter with fiction when fact is as blowsy as an old whore? I wouldn't presume to press my fictions on anyone else, but what's the matter with lowering myself into this warm-water tub of je-ne-sais-quoi?
Disgorged, Oklahoma.
I know you're just noodling, but I'd like to hear the rest of it.
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