Confessions from 233 Diesel Street

Shortly after the sun had risen we rose from our scratchers and packed into the wheelhouse like oversized sardines to wish Dylan a happy birthday.

Mick presented Dylan with a gift, a quill and ink to aid him with his Dear Dylan entries. I enjoyed the moment sitting on an old wooden foot stool under Starlight’s helm, munching on a piece of cheese and vegemite toast that Kew had prepared earlier.

Instantly I had visions of Dylan, instinctively dipping his red parrot feather into the small bottle of black ink while surrounded by buzzing mosquitos and antiques in his dimly lit cabin. This vision did not materialise as such, and the red feather was to become symbolic of trying times for Dylan Snowball.

I would describe Dylan’s temperament as an unwavering, stoic, co-operative and thoughtful one, whom of which I have never seen or known to be rattled. However, I’ve noticed a change of late, and like Dr Phil, suspected something was amiss. True to my inner woman’s intuition, a rusty chain of events did transpire, and it threatened to melt Dylan like a snowball in the hot Caribbean sun.

Snowy has been crook with the flu adding garlic to everything he eats to combat it. Without his chunny around he looks like a sheep-less shepard. He feels that the two saddles he handmade for the gaffs would more suited to a horse, and he can’t get the generator to purr like a well fed Maltese stray. He was going through a rough patch. 

The bad run finally reached its peak when the next instalment of Dear Dylan was lost forever. Trying his hand on todays modern writing machines, he lost the lot while looking for the paper slot. I believed it had the potential to bring the salty snowball unhinged.

Initially, I was surprised by not being surprised when Dylan headed to his scratcher late the following night to dutifully rewrite his lost diary entry. I assumed he had everything under control till the spiritual vibe in the rasta shack was broken by a different sounding sigh coming from the cabin across the street. It became shockingly clear that Dylan had rewritten and re-lost his Dear diary entry for a second time.

The following day during the morning meeting Dylan sat quietly on Starlight’s top step. I gingerly asked if he would attempt his Dear Dylan diary entry for a third time. I couldn’t help but encourage him to do so, adding he should while the content was fresh. In a moment of rare weakness, Snowy looked to the sky, reaching high with NBA arms and outward palms. His garlic mouth agape within a pale confused face. Why had the sea gods stolen his words? Dumbstruck.

The End.

Bryson.