Rocks in My Pockets


Lazy is an accusative word with practically no meaning. Those who call others lazy are lazy themselves and are attempting to get the accused up and motivated to do what the accuser himself is too lazy to do. Never accuse me of being lazy. I will take an exception to it, because I remember the rocks in my pockets.

When I worked as a laborer I wore heavy construction boots. We called them pumpkins. They were full-grain cowhide, high-backed and heavy-soled and had a bright orange-tan patina when new. I wore them daily with t-shirts and bibbed overalls. At the end of the day I would come home righteously tired and my clothes were always covered with great white rings of evaporated sweat.

At first, finding rocks in my pockets was something of a mystery. I worked outdoors but I still couldn’t figure out where those damned rocks were coming from. The rocks were larger than the diameter of dime and almost the size of a quarter. In resolving the mystery I examined one closely and found it translucent and crystalline. Just out of curiosity I licked it and discovered it was pure salt. My sweat had saturated my clothes as I worked and had migrated throughout my clothing. In the process of perspiration, the water in the sweat evaporated, and the salt thus exuded reformed as great saline crystals or rocks in my pockets.


About The Twentieth Man

Age 67
This entry was posted in Expository Writing, Personal History, Short Stories, The Twentieth Man, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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