Right now, he and I are sharing twin beds in my old bedroom, but we’re moving out soon. When I showed up at my parents’ house with him in tow, my mom’s jaw about hit the floor. He had managed to make himself look extrapathetic by not showering for a week, so his hair stuck out in all directions from underneath his trucker’s cap. I told my mom that he had no other place to go, that taking him in was an act of charity. It was an easy sell; my mom loves charity. She emptied his garbage bag into the washing machine, made him some food, sat back, and watched the elbows fly. Nobody eats like John Miller. It’s like being in shop class or something. Debris everywhere. You should be required to wear safety glasses whenever he’s at the table. My mom loved him immediately, leaned against the refrigerator with arms crossed, listened to his stories about Jacksonville and his two older brothers with glee. She watched him saw through meals and thought he was just the greatest—a real character from the Deep South, right here in her tastefully wallpapered kitchen.
