SHOELESS ART GORMLEY

Anyone who has read my blogs for a year or more will recognize Art. Every year like a recurring case of the clap Art shows up on my doorstep to hunt turkey and fish for trout. Art belongs to a rare sub-culture of "sportsmen" made up of retired Jersey cops and blue collar good 'ol boys who discovered crack cocaine and Oxycontin late in life, and like to combine the injestion of said substances with standing in frigid water or squawking like a hen turkey. Artie claims he once shot a big buck off of Whitney Huston's tennis court. I'm sure Whitney, Bobby and Art were all smoked up at the time.
1:30 am last night- I drop Shewho off at her Brooklyn pad, after attending an opening for El Prof at Harris/Lieberman Gallery in downtown Manhattan. Post opening we've just watched Merryweather beat De la Hoya in a 12 round split decision, ate, drank and smoked too much in a throwback to the 80's evening. My god daughter Monasita is there with her dad looking like a 17 year old rockstar. As half the crowd comes and goes into the bed room to snort coke El Prof and I reminisce over fights past and watch the girls giggle. This is parenting 21st century style. It DOES take a village!
Pointing the Neon north I head back to the mountain. Half way home my herniated disc in my neck starts to hurt so badly I have to pull over. At 3:30 am I pull in my driveway almost blinded by the pain. There's a car in my spot with Jesey plates. Art. I forgot to lock the back door. All the lights are on, as is the TV. A toothless man is spawled out in my guest room, his dentures floating obscenely in a glass of what looks like scotch. I'm in no mood for company. "Make yourself at home Art." I growl and head off to bed. "Mikey!" Art smiles a toothless grin and never opens his eyes.
This morning I hurt so bad i can't get up to hunt. I hear Art get up about 8:00 am. Just as I'm rising around 11:00 he returns, carrying beer, white bread and eggs. At least he makes breakfast. Because of my bad neck I've thrown out my couch, so I get Art to drive me to town to buy some chairs. After I buy the chairs Art tosses me his keys and asks me to drive him to Walmart to buy shoes. "I don't feel too good." he informs me. "Must've been those pills of yours." Not only has he smoked my pot, drank my beer and invaded my house, he found my painkillers.... I grab his keys and look down at his feet. He's not wearing shoes. Let's go shopping. How can you not like this guy?