Billy Bob Thornton Is at Peace

There’s Mama, Rangy, Rocky, and Limpy. He sits out there in a wooden chair behind the big house on the Granbury Highway south of Weatherford with his boots kicked up on another chair he’s pulled up, waiting for them each night after Carrie’s asleep, on a landscape so dark you can’t see your nose in front of your face, only the orange hissing glow of his American Spirit floating around in the blackness whenever he sucks and the smoke goes into his lungs, which by the way are clean as can be, the doctor said so after a full-body scan and blood work and all the rest of it, even though he’s been smoking since he was nineteen with only a couple breaks and he just turned seventy this summer.