His old gas station is nearly hidden now behind the firs he’s let grow up along the road, and he doesn’t bother to whitewash the scalloped row of half-tires someone planted once instead of fence. And rushing by on the Island highway today, heading north or south, there’s little chance that anyone will notice Spit Delaney seated on the big rock at the side of his road-end, scratching at his narrow chest, or hear him muttering to the flat grey highway and to the scrubby firs and to the useless old ears of his neighbour’s dog that he’ll be damned if he can figure out what it is that is happening to him. Hitch-hikers do notice, however; they can hear his muttering. Walking past the sheep sorrel and buttercup on the gravel shoulder, they see him suddenly, they turn alarmed eyes his way. Nodding, half smiling at this long-necked man with the striped engineer’s cap, they move on through the shade-stripes of trees, their own narrow shadows like knives shaving the pavement beside them.
What do You think about Spit Delaney's Island (2011)?
