Can-I-gettaCan-I-gettaCan-I-getta; that’s what he says, or sort of sings to himself, over and over, faster and faster as the afternoon slides forward. The melody is disjointed, not exactly familiar, even to him, but still enormously pleasing – a stress reducer. Like so many of his habits, the quickening staccato-shot toward an unreachable crescendo that would drive others insane, instead works to steady him, make him feel like himself. The old boot that he is. Old and worn in, not out. The bump and scar on his shin where his hammer strike missed the bumper he was detaching. The heaving chest that grew ever so slightly with each moment of adulthood. The crazy mind that spins out songs and exclamations all day in bursts of glee, about penguins and hot rods, donuts and trailer parks. Eh-eh-eh, Eh-eh-eh… he’s off on another tangent – a car racing downtown, 20 miles in 20 minutes, in traffic. Better use the shoulder. Caaaaaan-I-gettaCan-I-gettaCan-I-getta…

-Danny Grosso