Rouleau de Beaulieu

That night the alms man slept like a puny weakling, arms and legs tucked into the sheets, eyes fluttering. He dreamt he lived with his great granny and three measly dogs, one with three legs, one with one ear and one with a corkscrew tail. His job was to brush the dogs, untangling burrs and dried shit from their coats. His great granny rewarded him with soda biscuits and jam and 25 cents to buy penny candy. He bought black licorice cigars and Mojos, Popeye cigarettes and sour balls, real Indian chewing tobacco and wax cigars filled with grape juice, whip licorice, in black, red and orange, shoestring licorice, black balls and jawbreakers. He liked cheese, Rouleau De Beaulieu and Saaland Pfarr, Saint-Marcellin, Rabacal and Rocamadour, Petit-Suisse, Peekskill Pyramid and Pave du Berry, Oschtjepka and Palet de Babligny, Menallack Farmhouse, Leerdammer and Le Fium Orbo. His great granny bought mild cheddar and sandwich slices, day-old Swiss and marble, nothing extravagant or savory. He smoked hand-rolled shag and pipe tobacco, stolen from his granddad’s cob, the one he smoked after supper and on Tuesday evenings. He ate as much candy as he could stomach, stuffing his pockets with Mojos and black licorice babies, his waistband courting his belly. He watched his great granny make blood sausage, the kitchen rank with burnt hair and piss, her hands red as slaughter.