Pigs' Tails and Pew Hinges

The night the man in the hat swallowed a goldfish he had a vision, the sky was going to disappear then reappear. He wasn’t sure when or why, or where or for how long, but simply that it was going to happen. He thought swallowing the goldfish might have something to do with it, or the way his nose itched. The next day he made a locket out of a pew hinge and a pig’s tail, basting the two together with fishing-line and a hooking-needle. He used the packet of washing soap he bought from the woman who sat in front of the church on Tuesdays and Thursdays between three and four pm, rain or shine, to shine his shoes, bringing them to a gleaming shine with the sleeve of his jacket.

He refastened the latches on his lean-to, careful not to poke a hole in the tarpaulin, swept the floor with a whisk-broom and went for a walk, his favorite hat on his head. Before leaving for his walk he wrote a note on a scrap of linoleum, the note saying the following: I made this locket for you with my bare hands, a pew hinge and a pig’s tail, I hope you like it. He stuffed the note in his jacket pocket, next to a chewing gum wrapper, a ball of clotted Kleenex and a hard candy, the candy covered in pocket lint, put the locket in his other pocket, next to his pocketknife and a pocket-comb, and set out for the church, his favorite hat sitting jauntily on the top of his head.