Reflections on Clint Cannon
A friend of yours.
Every Saturday morning, I knock on his door.
When he rises it’s different than on weekdays. Monday through Friday, he’ll emerge, wrapped in a towel and chest hair. But, on Saturday, Clint indulges me.
With the trees turning auburn, I’m so glad that he does.
Because — and I never start sentences with because—Clint and I will walk somewhere or sit idly. Either works for me, as long as he does his Clint things.
A bit. A spry swivel. A sunbeam from his brain. I swear to you, he’ll radiate and his hair will only need one hand to coif it.
Then, he’ll read my mind. And, we’ll laugh like fools. And, I’ll feel the warmth of his light. And, I’ll feel particular and special and so deeply understood.
I will be so wealthy. I will feel the knots in my back unwind.
Have I mentioned the tears in my eyes?
It’s true, I feel like crying; I’m such a wealthy man. To have a friend who laughs with my joy before a word drips down my chin.
It will pool about my collarbone, so close to my heart.
He’s also a thief.
Forget everything I’ve said.
Clint will smile at your girlfriend like he already knows they are in love.
Over chips and cheese, he’ll have won her parents over months ago. Mom will say, “I wish you were talking to that Clint boy. He’s so charming.” Dad will say, “That young man was very polite. I think I’ll take him fishing.” Clint will say, “You two flatter me. But, yes, that’s correct.”
And, we’ll all melt like chocolate candles, bathed in sweetness.
He’s also affected.
Now, remember everything I’ve said.
Clint will never forget. It all lives inside of him. It’s kindling for a furnace.
The man strip mines stimuli, digging for salience and profundity. Often, he’ll find it and grow it in his garden. This could be the seed of a short story. This could be a germinating sketch. This could be an olive branch to a girl he’s always idealized.
Whatever his harvest, Clint’s affect will become affection.
To be honest, I didn’t intend for this piece to become so abstract. But, there is innate abstraction in the man in the sun room.
His eyes are happy and sad. He loves Orson Scott Card’s books, but softly rejects the author. He’s been three people, since I first met him.
Neither of us planned on becoming dear friends, just like neither of us plans what bar we’re heading to next.
Still, we got here and there. Roommates and cheap pitchers. Teammates and a pull of rum.
I think Clint would like the rum part. He loves to watch Pirates of the Caribbean.
I love to knock on his door.