Long time readers will remember a story in the old typepad space, aintsobad, about a fellow named Otis, who fell out of his pickup truck on a winding road between Lipan and Brock. We “flash-backed” in that story to Otis’ early life, his antics and pranks, his love for Enid, who was a girl, and pigs, who were not girls.
In all this writer’s transition, computer troubles, weariness and overall disgust with stuff, Otis got left sitting in the road, stunned by the fall, his truck spinning out of control along a barbed wire fence, in a pool of his own vomit and nightfall coming. Otis laid at a crucial bend in the one lane road near a narrow bridge, where no one coming down the grade could see him because of the bridge and no one coming up the grade could see him because of the curve.
So, poor, helpless, solitary Otis, older and unloved, sat in a mess of his own making, made worse by geography and exacerbated by rural engineering. If his fellow travelers showed care and concern, Otis would find succor. If any sped down the grade, or up, and exercised only their accelerator, Otis would surely suffer.
Lovers of Otis will be glad to know he does escape, though I cannot yet divulge how. He attributes his rescue to God, cannot find a church that will accept an old man in blemished overalls with a runaway truck, and so begins his own congregation, made up of like minded persons. Amazingly, they were not hard to find.
And Otis wrote his own Holy Books, which I have found, I, and I alone, and share with you in segments now, as it darn well pleases me. This begins Monday or tonight, I don’t know, hut this is the background and if you do not want to read it, no one could blame you.