by Zak Salih
They have no idea we, the dead, still watch them. On their wooden benches, in their wooden rockers marked up for $114.99. The old mountain men tickle banjos, breathe into harmonicas, slap their thighs to the rhythm of folk songs first sung by fur trappers and horse traders. The tourists guzzle vintage pop, toss empty glass bottles of Royal Crown Cola, Cheerwine, and Bubble Up into a metal trashcan. Two bottles, five bottles, eight bottles. So many bottles, making so much noise. Only one bottle for us, however. Plastic, not glass.