February the Eighteenth. Opus and the Daily Practice. History.

It’s one of those sessions with not a lot of talking which suits me just fine since it is too hot to talk. Then when I have got the needle on him for the last pass at details on the prawn he starts talking to me about family history and a whole noble line of prawn fisherman. I laugh and say that I am relieved because I have been scrutinizing the shape and form of this prawn on the belly of his forearm for two hours. I am glad it’s not a lark. I am glad he’s not an idiot. Glad I’m not just wasting both our time. He says that, yeah–they had a prawn shop in the family on the East coast for a long time. Amazing, I say and finish the prawn. We start chit-chatting. I don’t have much of a family history. No ‘twenty-three and me’ spit in a tube for hundreds of dollars, bullshit. Furthest I feel like tracing my heritage back is a bar fight in Kentucky, when my great grandfather killed a man for embarrassing him in front of a woman. Story goes, they stepped out into the street and took off their jackets like gentlemen did and then my grandfather pulled a derringer on him and shot him. It was in the newspaper. No Hayes man has been in the newspaper since then. Anyway, I’m finally getting this guy set and ready to go when he starts getting red in his face and sighing and rubbing his face. He sent his father a picture of his arm and his father replied, Pawnshop. Your grandfather owned a successful pawn shop. It’s still in the family. Sorry, Man. I told him. No refunds. No do-overs.   FDM