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DON QUIXOTE
David Shumate
Now and then Sancho Panza telephones me from the Yucatan where he is vacationing
with his lover while I take care of his master. He knows how fragile the
old man can be and reminds me not to let him eat strawberries. Or peanut
butter. Or shrimp. And harsh detergents make his skin break out in a rash.
As do glamorous women. He wants to make sure I’ve been giving him
his medicine regularly. The pink pills. The blue pills. And the shot once
a week in his rump. He reminds me it’s dangerous to let him go out
unescorted into public and recounts the time he let him out of his sight
in Andalusia and found him a month later chained to an asylum wall. I assure
Sancho that his master is doing well and that we’re already on Chapter
Seven of his autobiography in which he and Dulcinea finally consummate their
love. Sancho laughs so hard he begins to snort. When he’s recovered,
he says, I never thought I’d say it… But I miss that old
fart.
Issue Six Excerpts
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