Free My Amputations (Fiction collective ;) by Clarence Major Page A

the time came. Edith kept the Buick from Hertz hot. She was already dreaming of a vacation in Saint Tropez. While Jesus was busy with his Idaho's Finest bag, Mason stood firmly—yet with a mind as dreamy as Edith's: he'd show the world . . . that Ferrand hadn't been worth going back to though Mason'd had a mind to return and shoot up the place. And though they'd settled for one Thompson—look how things were going! Jed'd yakked on about the seasonal rhythm, a certain wisdom, yet he'd made a kind of sense about how human-rhythms turn out . . . in line with other life-rhythms. Jed'd yakked a lot, mostly about his great old pa, and his wonderful grandpa, wise men, in touch with nature, and the great simple life of hillbillies. Mason and Jed sometimes shared a bottle of booze after the day's chores and that character, Jed, would get so caught in his love for his hill folks and their “wisdom” he'd forget he was talking to a traditional enemy of his people. One time ol' Jed whimpered, “My gosh, boy, I forget you colored when I'm talking to ya. You just like anybody else. How you get like that?” Jesus finished his sack job. They all backed toward the turnable doors. Everything was going just dandy till Mason stumbled over a two-and-a-half-foot silver-coated metal ashtray filled with cigarette butts and decorated sand.
    Boy, was he hot to trot! Mason'd just left the Valenti-D'Amico place of operations in Little Italy and was walking north on McDougal. He held in his right hand, at stomach-level, a dark blue booklet, looked with dancing eyes atits cover; the thumb and index of his left hand poised, ready to lift the cover back. As he walked he read: United States Government Printing Office. He looked at the snapshot of himself on the fourth page: didn't like the expression puttering around the full mouth. The passport photographer's fault: no sensitivity to subject. Too much a mug shot. Number J111967. Cover again: in gold letters: Passport. Beneath those precious words, also in gold, was the United States' seal: an eagle facing left with a left-talon clutching thirteen arrows and a right one clamped around a branch of olives—strength and peace. That's me , jack, strength and peace! Not a native son for nothing! Above the eagle's head: a mandala with stars at center representing the original (again) thirteen colonies. Well, this was Mason's passport and he felt close to the lofty efforts those sparkling stars represented. He'd get on a soap box for them: you bet your boots: after all this was his country, too. Wasn't it? Opening the booklet again with proper reverence, he whispered aloud the language of the third page: “The Secretary of State of the United States of America hereby requests all whom it may concern to permit the citizen(s) / national(s) of the United States named herein to pass without delay or hindrance and in case of need to give all lawful aid and protection.” God! Just think! the support of the entire government behind his identity! Money talks, yessirree boy. He turned to the fourth page again: “Warning: Alteration, Addition or mutilation of entries is prohibited. Any unofficial change will render this passport invalid.” Then this vital data: name, place of birth, date of birth, date of issue—which was February 3,1980—and date of expiration—February 2, 1985. The picture again: although the expression was not his it was the face of “a serious writer” like those on the jackets of novels: the tormented look, the scowl, a permanent expression of cynical disapproval. A man of profound thought? Spare me. The next page gave him only a fluttering pause: “Notice: This passport must not be used by any person other than the person to whom issued or in violation of the conditions or restrictions placed herein or in violation of the rules regulating the issuance of passports. Any willful violation ofthese laws and regulations will subject the offender to prosecution under Title Eighteen,