Poor farmhand mad man boy Willy brushes his teeth with an old toothbrush. It’s so old. The bristles look like horsehair and they permanently splay from years of gnawing, chewing and biting. The handle is worn, it’s color faded.
I conscientiously watch his tooth brushing ritual with confounded intoxication. “I must walk when I brush my teeth,” he says confidently. I move out of his way and he follows some sort of familiar path through the kitchen in and out of the bedroom back and forth in and out and around all the records (two are exactly the same, Ray Charles’ Friendship) and guitars, passed an old distressed map of the world and faded watercolors of farmhouses and faraway places.