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note: franksolich collects a primitive harem is dedicated to BainsBane, who for reasons that will become obvious as the tale unfolds, will be absent from this story.
This is a work of fiction, but as usual it’s based upon real-life people and experiences, occurring at different times and places in this life, and with the primitives tossed in to spice it up.
This story is not rated because I just started it, and have no idea if anything racy’ll appear in it or not--but if it suddenly becames "R"-rated, I'll make that note in the title.
Readers as usual are free to--in fact, encouraged to--interrupt with comments as the story goes on, to suggest turns it might take.
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franksolich collects a primitive harem. “You know, I’ve never had a problem with carnies,†I said to the property caretaker, when we were discussing plans for three weeks hence, during the county fair.
“When I was a kid, yeah, sure, others were always telling me to stay away from them because they did ‘bad’ things to kids. They were dirty and odoriferous and stole, and that they were usually of gypsy or Italianate derivation made them even more fearsome.
“But as it turned out, as a kid, I never met a carnie.
“By the time I was an adult and had seen more of the world, I encountered them a great many times, and much to my surprise, found them illuminating, interesting; and that they always paid cash for everything impressed me all the more.
“Their personal hygiene wasn’t so great, but cash can encourage one to overlook a lot of character defects.â€
This will be the third summer in a row the carnies have camped here, instead of on the county fairgrounds, as alcohol is prohibited on governmental property in Nebraska, and the last time the carnies were caught imbibing there, the $100 fines paid for new tennis courts and air-conditioned bleachers for the high school football field, not to mention extensive landscaping for the local golf course.
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This being private property, and with the consent of the owner or tenant (myself), they can drink out here.
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Unfortunately, the property caretaker had been unaware of my commitment to the carnies, and given someone else permission to camp here at the same time.
“She’s from Chicago, and just got done with a nasty divorce from her husband. She wants to camp out here for a week, to ‘heal.’ She’s got considerable tattoos, and is bringing along a bunch of cats and chickens to keep her company.â€
Oh, I said; “that’s Big Mo. I know her, but she doesn’t know me.
“Big Mo’s great.â€
The caretaker looked at me, puzzled. “But she’s a primitive, and you don’t like primitives.â€
“Big Mo’s an exception,†I assured him; “I used to dislike her intensely--she reminded me too much of a late older sister, God rest her soul, who was a hysterical hypochondriac.
“But then some weeks ago, she got into a tussle with other primitives--they really ganged up on her--who dragged her through the wringer.
“It was really sordid, all these rabble, the lumpenunterprimitiven, getting on her like they did, as if they were better than she was. They ripped Big Mo apart, eviscerated her, tore her to pieces.
“As if they had any right to criticize one of their betters.
“Big Mo’s the epitome of primitivity; they don’t get much better than her.
“But Big Mo stood her ground like a man; she was admirable.â€
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“Well, there’s going to be a couple of others with her, and maybe even more than that,†the caretaker said; “they’re calling it ‘the girls’ week off,’ getting away from everybody and everything, especially men.
“One of them’s a poetess from California--â€
“Say no more,†I interrupted; “CaliforniaPeggy’s welcome here any time.â€
The caretaker looked at me, puzzled. “But she’s a primitive, and you don’t like primitives.â€
“CaliforniaPeggy’s an exception,†I said; “I used to really loathe her, she being one of these affluent white liberals who has no idea what the real world, and what people, are like.
“But then two things happened; one of them was that a near-lumpenunterprimitiven, the Kali primitive, not to be confused with the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive, got on her case for supporting Big Mo.
“And the truth is, the Kali primitive isn’t even good enough to brush CaliforniaPeggy’s teeth, much less find fault with her.
“But CaliforniaPeggy showed real class, real dignity, in dealing with this unwarranted personal attack.
“And about that time, I’d encountered CaliforniaPeggy somewhere else, and even though she knew who I was, while Lamond hadn’t figured it out, she was cordial to me. Our conversation was short, but it was marked by nothing but the utmost cordiality.
“CaliforniaPeggy’s great; she can come here any time.â€
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“And then there’s someone currently vacationing over in Italy for three months, renting a servant-staffed villa, who’s taking a break from that to come out here to be with the ‘girls.’ She’s an expert on cooking--â€
Wow, I said; “a five-star guest list. That’s the cbayer primitive.â€
The caretaker looked at me, puzzled. “But she’s a primitive, and you don’t like primitives.â€
“I know, I know,†I said; “but the cbayer primitive’s an exception.
“I’ve always been ambivalent about the cbayer primitive, the feelings back-and-forthing from hot to cold, but currently I got nothing but the greatest affection and goodwill for her.
“She’s showing dear old sweet--but lazy--Lu how to run a forum on Skins’s island.
“The cbayer primitive’s great; I’d love to see her again.â€
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There was however the matter of two groups--the carnies and the ‘girls’--and just one camp-site, although I supposed it’d be okay to use the Italianate-owned property next to this one. It was purchased by Meyer and Alberto back in 1948, and while the property taxes have been diligently paid on it every six months since then, nobody Italianate’s ever been out here to do anything with it the past sixty-six years.
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“You could put one in one place, and the other in the other place,†the caretaker said.
“The problem though,†I pointed out, “is that I prefer campers use the road from the highway to get to my campground.
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“But to use the Italianate tract further down, they have to drive right through the middle of this property, and I’m not too keen on that.
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“I didn’t have any problem with Lamond’s people doing that, they being decent and civilized church-going people.
“But here we got primitives and carnies.
“And the carnies might scare the ‘girls,’ so best to keep them unaware of each other.
“I don’t have to watch out for the carnies; they can take care of themselves.
“But the ‘girls’ are another matter; they need watched over, so nothing bad happens to them.
“And also being femmes, they have special needs that could be better given from here, not to way over there.
“So we’ll have the carnies on the Italianate property, out of sight, and have the ‘girls’ here, where I can better protect and shield their frail womanhood.â€
to be continued
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Frank,
It’ll probably be tomorrow before I get a chance to read the story and I don’t mean to hijack you before you get in full swing, but that first photo is amazing. That particular view almost exactly matches a view on a river near where I grew up.
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Frank,
It’ll probably be tomorrow before I get a chance to read the story and I don’t mean to hijack you before you get in full swing, but that first photo is amazing. That particular view almost exactly matches a view on a river near where I grew up.
The picture's like three or four years old.
That part of the river's 500 yards from the back porch of the house. Looking north.
The other one, that looks similar, isn't. It's on the Italianate tract, looking south.
<<<not in "full swing" on the story yet; just started.
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The picture's like three or four years old.
That part of the river's 500 yards from the back porch of the house. Looking north.
The other one, that looks similar, isn't. It's on the Italianate tract, looking south.
<<<not in "full swing" on the story yet; just started.
It brings back memories. The only difference that I can see from what I'll call my river is that on my river the growth on the sandbar is just a little bit farther back from the water. Not much, but a little. On my river, about 500 foot to the left is a pretty big cliff. It's been 30 to 35 years since I've been there, but I can remember it like yesterday.
By the way, I just finished the story. Great start.
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By the way, I just finished the story. Great start.
Remember to whom it's dedicated; I hope to make it as offensive as Hell, to women's-libbers.
Not to women, and not to the femme primitives who'll be in the story--but to the screeching banshee she-women of Skins's island, who whine and bitch about genderized language as if it's the most terrible ordeal women of the world face today.
Never mind that millions, tens of millions if not possibly hundreds of millions, of women are being brutalized, mutilated, and killed in the world today, but because it's being done by groups for whom it's politically-incorrect to criticize, the women's-libbers don't care about those women.
Again, I hope to make this story as offensive, as sexist, as toxic, as Hell--not to women, not to the femme primitives who'll be in the story--but to the rabid women's-libbers on Skins's island.
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“Well, I dunno,†I said to the neighbor’s wife; “you know what women like to do.
“But even though [the femme] and I have been an ‘item’ for some years now, I still don’t know myself, what they like to do.
“One idea, though; the week of the county fair, when the ‘girls’ will be here too, there’s the community-wide late-summer garage sales, and maybe Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, and the cbayer primitive would go for that, to see how we here in the Sandhills of Nebraska hold garage sales.
“I’m sure they’ve never seen garage sales such as those we have.
“It’s a great time to stock up on home-made rhubarb pie, for example.
“And [the wife of the retired property caretaker]’s told me that she’s planning to have her biggest sale ever; remember, she’s got all that stuff to sell, from what the Packer clan abandoned here on Memorial Day. I don’t think the ‘girls’ would be interested in the boat or the trailer or the cadaver-carvers, but they might get a kick out of seeing hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer’s white cotton underdrawers with the 56†waistline.â€
(http://i6.photobucket.com/albums/y223/dummiedestroyer/autumn/queenvictoriasunderwear_zps8c84bad5.jpg) (http://s6.photobucket.com/user/dummiedestroyer/media/autumn/queenvictoriasunderwear_zps8c84bad5.jpg.html)
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We were sitting on the back porch, and the property caretaker was there too, being done with his work for the day, and relaxing with a couple of cans of beer.
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“You know,†I said, “I’m really glad both of you are here right now, because I’m really concerned about something.
“To wit, the ease and comfort of CaliforniaPeggy.
“Big Mo and the cbayer primitive can take care of themselves pretty well, but CaliforniaPeggy’s, uh, kind of ancient. Probably she’s got stiff joints and muscles that ache.
“And I want her to be comfortable.
“But I’m not intimately acquainted with the problems peculiar to ancient women; my own mother and sisters died long, long, long before they attained any length of age anywhere near that of CaliforniaPeggy.
“However, at the same time, we have here three women who’ve borne infants, and by tackling the problem from that angle instead of the age angle, Big Mo and the cbayer primitive could be comforted too.â€
- - - - - - - - - - -
“What are you thinking of?†the property caretaker asked.
“Sanitary conveniences,†I euphemized.
“Now, normally,†I went on, “I’d have the same attitude that [the femme] has about women camping here--’oh, they can just dig a hole and squat over that.’â€
The femme is a woman of feminine grace and elegance, but she grew up as a cowgirl with four older brothers, then three younger brothers, and finally a sister at the end. So generally if it doesn’t bother men, it doesn’t bother her either.
“But I rather respect women who’ve borne infants.
“Now, women who’ve borne infants, whether last week or fifty years ago, whether eighteen years old or eighty-eight years old, whether one single infant or a score of them, well, their bodies get significantly weakened, and they’re afflicted with inconveniences such as always having to go to the bathroom,†I again euphemized.
“People who’ve camped here have either brought along those flimsy camp-stools with little white plastic bags hanging underneath or, as with the Packers for example, whenever hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer needed to do some business, hippyhubby Wild Bill drove her into town to use the women’s restroom at the convenience store.
“But I don’t want the ‘girls’ to have to do that; I think that as mothers of the human race, they deserve somewhat more convenience and comfort.
“I need to have a sanitary facility built down there, temporary but state-of-the-art, so clean and sleek and handsome that even CaliforniaPeggy would admit it beats what she has to use at home.â€
to be continued
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“I told you a couple of years ago you needed to have me build an outhouse down there,†the property caretaker said. “It’d be handy for the convenience of campers.â€
“But that’s precisely why I don’t want a permanent one down there,†I replied; “if I put up amenities, then everybody and his uncle would want to camp here.
“This way, with no amenities, pointing out this is real ‘roughing it,’ it cuts down on the requests; only the heartiest few bother applying.
“And besides, an outhouse would destroy the pristine virginal look of the river-side.
“I’m not in the campground business, and I don’t charge anybody any money for staying down there, so I’m not legally or morally required to provide amenities.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
I’m not the boss of the property caretaker, although the one who’s now retired used to refer to me as “boss;†I’m merely a tenant on a piece of property about the size of six and a half football fields.
The caretaker’s boss owns substantial real-estate in the county, although in scattered bits-and-pieces.
The owner, a guy about my own age, prefers just to work at the steel mill in the big city, leaving worries about maintenance of the properties to the caretaker, a guy in his 30s, a distant relative; he alleges working in the steel mill is easier.
I’m however the only human tenant of any of these diverse tracts, and so the caretaker leaves his tools, equipment, and vehicles here, which explains why he hangs out here a lot.
Myself, my needs are modest and I have few complaints, so I don’t cost him any great deal of labor.
The caretaker is, really, his own boss, deciding what needs to be done, and when. He’s very well paid, but I wouldn’t want his job, because sometimes it entails working 80+ hours a week, especially during bad weather. He’s “on call†24/7/365.
But he likes it because he gets to set his own schedule, doing things at his own whim.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Well, I guess, no problem†he said, “but did you have anything specific in mind?â€
“Just a well-built, top-notch little miniature dwelling--temporary--to house a commode,†I said.
“And something pretty for the ‘girls,’ at the same time not being an eyesore on the appearance of the river-side.
“It’d be nice if the commode had a heated seat, but that might be too much,†I suggested.
“And the standard stuff--lighted, no wastes seeping into the ground, and oh God please, no odors.
“Try to figure out some way so there’s no odors.
“When I was wandering around the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants, there was the ugly odor of human shit all over the place; it permeated, fouled, the air. I don’t want to smell that any more.â€
to be continued
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A convention of DUmpettes without grasswipe Judy Smith?
Her years of homelessness would shed a different light on concerns about sanitary facilities.
Of course, there on the riverbank there are no doorways or alleys.
Maybe a great-great-grandson can front her a Trailways ticket.
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A convention of DUmpettes without grasswipe Judy?
Much to her disappointment, it's looking that way, no Judy grasswire in this tale.
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“I got a call from New Jersey today,†the caretaker said; “from one of Big Mo’s friends who’s coming here.
“She wanted to know if she had to bring any protection against wild Indians.â€
Yeah, I said; “they’re very provincial not only down in San Diego and Mexico City, but in the northeast too.
“Who was it?â€
“The NJCher primitive, the one who sleeps eight hours a day, works four hours a day, and spends twelve hours a day preparing supper, although she calls it ‘dinner.’
“I got the impression she’s pretty uppity.â€
No problem, I said; “she’ll come down to earth soon enough, once she gets here.â€
“And there’s two others, also pals of Big Mo’s,†the caretaker continued.
Since I’m deaf and find use of the telephone cumbersome, I use the business partner, the femme, the neighbor’s wife, and the property caretaker as my answering-service. They do all the listening-and-talking for me, and then pass on the details to me.
“One of them’s a great-aunt from Chicago--â€
“Oh yes,†I interrupted; “the former neighbor of Fat Che, at one time the ‘BenBurch’ primitive, but his house was foreclosed, and so he had to move. A spinster aunt who eats like a bird but who’s built like a brick house, a touch of black hair on her upper lip, and with badly-fitting false teeth.
“She doesn’t like me, but we could probably be at least formally cordial to each other.â€
“The second one, I can’t figure out,†the caretaker went on; “this is supposed to be ‘the girls’ week off,’ away from men, but Skippy from California’s coming too.â€
“Actually, that’s okay,†I said. “Skippy’s undeniably a male, but he’s no man.
“Don’t get me wrong--he likes to poke women, not other guys.
“But he’s got no backbone, no fortitude, no manhood in him. Skippy‘s Jello.â€
to be continued
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The business partner was here early this morning, on his way down to Missouri to pick up a horse he’d bought; he breeds horses and does one other thing as his main enterprises. Our accounting forensics, while a large part of my income, is but a small part of his.
“Some crazy woman called me the other day,†he said, “looking for you. But as she’s obviously a nutcase, I figured it wasn’t important enough to bother you at the time.â€
If I had ears, they would’ve perked up.
“She was that big tumbling jugs broad who was here recently; from Minnesota.
“She wanted to talk to you because she wants your pal Romeo’s address, as she wants to come out to see him again. I got the impression she doesn’t want to deal with you any more, but you’re her only avenue to what she wants, Romeo.â€
“Your pal†had been said with sarcasm; the business partner doesn’t care for him…..as neither does practically everybody else, finding him insufferable. I too find him a pain, but somebody’s got to be a friend.
“I played with her a bit,†he continued; “she’s really hot for him.â€
“Yeah,†I said, “I can’t figure it out. He hopped around in the sack with her, and then dumped her. I didn’t hop around in the sack with her because she wants to be liked for her mind, not her body.
“And she likes him, and despises me.â€
“You played that wholly wrong,†the business partner said, “and I can’t figure out why, because you before anybody else knew the score from square one, from the start. You knew that she’s just interested in being poked, and that all this women’s-libber stuff is just for show.
“You knew that, and so should’ve poked her. She’d love you then.â€
Uh no, I said; “some women, I don’t want to be loved by.â€
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“So…..how’d it end up?†I finally asked.
“I told her she didn’t have to contact you,†he said, at which I heaved a sigh of relief.
“I told her I could tell her myself, where Romeo lives.â€
My hair stood on end.
“But really, I gave her dutch508’s address.
“’I don’t have his telephone number on me, but it’s okay to just pop in on him--make it a surprise. And don’t worry about the timing, because any time’s a good time for him,’ I also told her.â€
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This is the eastern slope of the Sandhills of Nebraska; dutch508 lives on his Connecticut-sized cattle barony on the western slope of the Sandhills, more than 300 miles away.
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“Well, dutch508’s certainly got the quarters, and the means, to treat her well,†I said; “and besides, he sets a good table.
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/autumn/dutchhouse-2_zpsdb1405df.jpg) (http://s1100.photobucket.com/user/Eferrari/media/autumn/dutchhouse-2_zpsdb1405df.jpg.html)
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“But she’s going to know it’s a trick, because Romeo’s here, and dutch508’s way over there.â€
“She’s a sex-starved broad,†the business partner said, “and being from a congested, crowded blue state, she doesn’t know excresence about the geography of Nebraska. As far as she knows, Omaha’s in Tennessee, and we’re west of Idaho…..somewhere.
“She fell for it, and plans to drive there this weekend.â€
to be continued
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“Well, cancel the plans for a two-seater,†I told the property caretaker in mid-morning.
“Keep everything else the same, but the weight-limits’ll support only one of the ‘girls’ at a time, so it‘ll have to be a one-seater.
“By the way, why is there such a thing as two-seaters? Do people really sit down side-by-side, their hips and thighs rubbing together, doing their business?â€
“These are women,†the caretaker reminded me; “you know how women can’t go to the bathroom alone.â€
Oh.
“Well, anyway, the weight limit’s going to be stressed enough, with just one of the ‘girls’ in there--Big Mo just invited LynneSin to come out here too.â€
to be continued
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About lunch-time, I was helping the neighbor adjust something on a tractor in the garage, when a big black car pulled up into the front yard.
Like the property caretaker, the neighbor stores stuff out here instead of his place, because this place has certain advantages, including plenty of room, plenty of equipment, plenty of tools…..and there’s three ancient refrigerators in the garage stocked full of beer.
Stuff one likes to have at home, but it’s just not convenient.
Out of the back seat emerged, of all people, Louie, the “advance man†for the carnival that’s going to be here for the county fair. Louie, of Italianate derivation, is a short thin middle-aged guy with a perpetually worried expression on his face.
He’s the one who goes around putting up posters advertising the carnival, and being sure that the site is “well-prepped†for when the rides, booths, and carnies arrive to set things up.
I’ve known Louie for three years now; he travels all over, and I’ve seen him more than just the times the carnival’s coming to town.
- - - - - - - - - -
I first met Louie the final time the carnies camped on the fairgrounds (three years ago); the county treasury was running dry and the people were demanding some new public amenities, and so the sheriff decided it’d help matters if he collected more fines from law-breakers.
Since the sheriff is popularly-elected, and likes his job, he couldn’t do much to local law-breakers, but outsiders, well, they don’t live and vote here.
Consumption of alcoholic beverages on governmental property in Nebraska is against the law, subjecting one to fines ranging from $100 up to the skies. It’s a good thing, and to our credit, it’s no secret; an outsider can’t be around more than five minutes before learning it’s the law. It’s no secret.
One can drink in a bar or restaurant, in one’s own home or yard, or on private property where one has permission (or invitation) of the owner.
This a pretty vast arena for drinking, but for some perverse reason, outsiders seem to think it should be okay to suck on the bottle on the sidewalks, on the streets, in the parks, in other public areas.
Some people just can’t be satisfied.
- - - - - - - - - -
The sheriff passed out plenty of tickets the four nights of the county fair that year, to drinking carnies.
Louie, who’s also the manager of the carnival, begged and pleaded; he’d go bankrupt paying all those fines.
It wasn’t that bad, though; as it turned out, the amount of the fines matched the amount of the “take†for the rides, games, and sideshows, no more than that.
It was enough to build six new tennis courts, air-condition the bleachers at the high school football field, and re-landscape the 18-hole local golf course. The locals were happy; it hadn’t cost us a cent.
Louie threatened to bring his carnival here no more, until I interceded, reminding him I’m tenant of property not only scenic but great for camping, too. And because it’s private property, and with my permission, the carnies could camp and drink all they wanted without breaking the law.
This property’s five miles straight down the road from the county fairgrounds; a piece of cake.
And so the carnies camped here and drank all they wanted, last year and the year before that.
There were no problems, other than that the enterprising eager young lad, the 11-year-old son of the neighbor, sold all the beer in the three refrigerators in the garage here to the carnies…..at a dollar a case.
- - - - - - - - - - -
Louie of course smiled upon seeing me, and then introduced me to the two others, Vinnie “the meat grinder†and Giovanni “the smiling undertaker,†who made me a little nervous.
“I give you franksolich, a nice guy, one of the nicest guys one can ever hope to meet,†Louie enthusiastically announced to the pair, who broke out in genuinely-nice smiles. “Everybody, but everybody, likes, loves franksolich, a nice guy--â€
“Well, not everybody likes him,†the neighbor interrupted. “Primitives don’t like him.â€
Louie’s face clouded with contempt. “I spit on the primitives,†he said; “bastardos, merda, ritardos, stronzos, finocchios, culos, all of them, the primitives.
“May their [rectal apertures] permanently shut so they’ll never again know the relief of emptying their bowels.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
Louie, the neighbor, Vinnie “the meat grinder,†Giovanni “the smiling undertaker,†and I went out to the back porch, to socialize for a few minutes.
Louie grabbed the mounted telescope screwed to the top of a porch-railing, to scan the camping area on the river-side 500 yards distant. Peering, he spied what appeared to be the beginnings of a miniature Swiss Alpine chalet, which suddenly gave me an idea.
The “girls†were going to be camping there, something I hadn’t told Louie yet, and the carnies would be camping around the bend out of sight, on Meyer’s and Alberto’s tract.
I didn’t want the carnies to know about the “girls,†lest they run amok among them, pillaging and other unspeakable things. I’m very concerned for the sanctity of womanhood.
“Yeah, there’s some construction going on down there,†I pointed out, “and so I’m putting your people further down, about a mile down, around the corner. It’s very similar to this campground. But they have to get there by driving through this property, not by driving along the river.
“Whatever else, don’t have them drive along the river to get there.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
Everybody sat around the table on the back porch, chitchatting, when Louie made an unspoken wish to have a drink. It’s not my thing, but it’s their thing, and so I acquiesced.
The femme keeps a horde of wine here, because I’m the only one who lives here and I don’t drink, so nobody’ll touch it.
This however was a special occasion, and she wasn’t going to mind. There’s about sixty bottles in her collection, and not knowing anything about wine, I simply grabbed some Italianate-labeled bottles at random, which included 1990 Giuseppe Quintarelli Amabile del Cere Bianco Veneto, 1999 Barbaresco Crichet e Pajè, 2002 Marchisi Antinori Firenze, 1985 Sassicaia Tenuta San Guido, and 1970 Brunello il Greppo Riserva Biondi Santi.
Louie beamed when reading the labels; apparently I’d randomly selected well.
to be continued
-
As it neared suppertime, and Louie, Vinnie the meat-grinder, and Giovanni the smiling undertaker seemed a little too sauced for their own good, I suggested they come with me to dine at the bar in town, not least because the femme would be there, and also Swede, the cook of Norwegian derivation whose specialty is Italianate cuisine.
They were spending the night in the big city, about 45 miles away, and it’d be good for sobering them up. The property caretaker had left, to have supper at home with his wife.
When we got to the bar, Swede exuded a sour grimace upon seeing me, but then lightened up at the sight of the other three, s-o-o-o-o-o-o obviously sons of the central Mediterranean.
The femme was already there, along with the neighbor’s older brother, the insurance man, Dane the local mechanic of Norwegian derivation, Finn the town cop also of Norwegian derivation, and Romeo, a ranch-hand who works across the road from where I live. Even though the other side of the large table was unoccupied, I pulled up a chair and squeezed in between her and Romeo.
The femme was outnumbered nine-to-one, but that’s hardly unusual; having grown up in the middle of seven brothers on a ranch out in the Sandhills, and despite her not having any attributes of the “tomboyâ€--in fact, she’s rather daintily feminine--she’s always been considered one of the guys, one of us.
- - - - - - - - - -
Swede, curious about the three who’d come in with me, shoved the waitress aside and came over to our table to take our orders. He immediately brushed me off, already knowing that I wanted a hamburger well done, pressed down hard on the grill so as to squeeze out every drop of grease, french fries cooked on the grill and not in the fryer, and a side dish of sour cream.
I’ve been going here for supper a few times every week since August 2001, and being regular in my habits have always had exactly the same thing, every time. If nothing else, I’m at least consistent.
Already having the orders for those who’d gotten there before us, Swede concentrated upon dealing with Louie, Vinnie, and Giovanni, exchanging insight and opinions about the various dishes offered.
It was a wonder to watch, this tall light-skinned blond-haired (although with copious grey) son of the kongeriket Norge explaining Italianate dishes to three short dark swarthy sons of Ausonia--and in Italiano, no less.
Knowing an expert when they saw one, the three accepted Swede’s suggestions.
- - - - - - - - -
Since I’m deaf, I didn’t participate in any of the chit-chattery and yim-yammery that went on among the others--they were certainly an animated crowd this evening--and instead just sat back and watched.
One of the things I thought about was the wisdom of my decision to have the neighbor’s wife deal with Big Mo and the ‘girls’ when they came here, instead of the femme.
I dunno what’s going to happen, but in case Big Mo’s crowd wanted female guidance on things to do, places to go, I’d decided to offer them the neighbor’s wife, because if they met the femme, they’d want to scratch her eyes out, tear her to pieces, shred her.
Both the neighbor’s wife and the femme are a year, two years, under forty, but lithely aesthetic.
The neighbor’s wife has borne five infants in twelve years, but still retains her petite, Nancy Reagan-like figure and poise.
The femme has undergone no such trials and tribulations, but despite age, remains teenager-thin, almost wiry.
But when it comes to the neighbor’s wife, it’s pretty obvious, even to primitives, how she does it; once a dental hygienist in Omaha, she’s now an avid horsewoman up here, and taking care of horses is more than just riding them a few hours a day.
It’s a great way to stave off surplus poundage, taking care of horses. 24/7/365.
So while Big Mo’s crowd might envy the neighbor’s wife, at the same time they’d see it’s because she works so hard, and the primitives would sooner just be lazy and accept their fat and decrepitude.
But in the case of the femme, a theatre arts and dance instructor, who’s this way for no apparent reason, they’d get all green-eyed and jealous…..especially if they caught her eating, because the femme eats like a horse; she makes LynneSin seem bird-like in appetite.
to be continued
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“I really appreciate it,†I told the neighbor’s wife while we were driving to the big city. “[the femme] can deal with, interact with, the carnies all she wants, but I don’t want Big Mo’s girls to even learn of her existence.
“They’ll get envious, and tear her up, rip her to pieces, out of sheer spite and jealousy, because she can put down chow like a bison and not gain an ounce, while any one of them could just have a parsley-sprig, and pad on more lard.â€
We were going to the big city because I had an appointment with a physician; the neighbor’s wife was coming along in case something was done that I wouldn’t be able to drive back here. The older three children were with their father, working, and we had the five-year-old son and the two-year-old daughter with us.
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/august/10-149_zps2c3bb4bc.jpg) (http://s1100.photobucket.com/user/Eferrari/media/august/10-149_zps2c3bb4bc.jpg.html)
“Does she know what’s going on yet?†the neighbor’s wife asked.
Sort of, I said; “after all, she was at the bar last night and met Louie, Vinnie, and Giovanni, so she knows about the carnies coming. I haven’t told her yet about Big Mo’s gang.
“By the way, thus far there’s going to be Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, the cbayer primitive, the NJCher primitive, the great-aunt from Chicago, Skippy, LynneSin, and I found out earlier this morning that the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive and the raccoon-bitten primitive, the ‘Aerows’ primitive from Mississippi, are coming too.
“Big Mo knows how to rope in the good ones, for a primitive get-together; Big Mo’s great.
“And to think--it’ll take place on franksolich’s turf.â€
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- - - - - - - - - -
“What do you suppose they’ll want from me?†the neighbor’s wife asked.
“I have no idea,†I replied; “it’s wholly possible they won’t want to have anything to do with anybody here, in which case you’d be home free.
“They’re not going to deal with me, because I’m a man, and for the moment at least they hate men.
“But for you, being a woman, it could be anything from just answering questions about what to do, what to see, all the way to actually participating in whatever it is they wish to do.â€
The neighbor’s wife said she would think of things beforehand, â€but really, it’s difficult imagining what a bunch of miserable women would like to do, other than just sit around a campfire and bitch.â€
“Think of things to get them out of their funk,†I replied.
“For example, most of them are from crowded congested blue places, and most of them are baby-boomers who grew up with all the modern conveniences given them on a silver platter, and so have no idea how life used to be, or how life is sometimes out here.
“They need some illumination in that direction, and it might be interesting for them.
“For example, you could maybe take them to the ladies’ fabric shoppe in the big city, to show them the acres and acres of material, the miles of thread, and the stacks of Simplicity paper patterns.
“Excepting for CaliforniaPeggy, who’s a special case, I’ll bet not a one of them has ever seen such a thing, a fabric shoppe; I’ll bet it’s never occurred to most of them that people used to make their own clothes, and some still do. I can right now ‘see’ the NJCher primitive trying to figure out why some pins have holes in them, or the cbayer primitive trying to figure out why the blades of pinking shears are the way they are.
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/august/12-111_zps0507a485.jpg) (http://s1100.photobucket.com/user/Eferrari/media/august/12-111_zps0507a485.jpg.html)
“It’d be something wholly new to them, like a trip to Mars, and they might find it interesting.â€
to be continued
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“All those women,†she said; “it’ll be a handful, and I’m sure you’ll find dealing with carnies a lot easier.â€
Maybe, I said, “but I’m sure that Big Mo can keep them in line.
“Big Mo’s solid and sturdy, unbreakable as a rock. She can make them behave.â€
Having gotten back from the big city, I’d been out in the yard repairing croquet wickets when my latest visitor arrived. As I don’t know her all that well, she’s an acquaintance, not a friend.
Years ago, she’d been a sorority sister at the University of Nebraska with another woman who was into soil science, and who’d stayed here one summer analyzing the William Rivers Pitt, that 740-cubic-yard mound of antique swine excrement, dating from 1875-1950, which eventually became the subject of her Ph.D. thesis.
The Jungfrau-looking William Rivers Pitt looms about a city block-and-a-half from the front porch, in between the house and the abandoned road leading to a large tract of land owned by Italianate interests in New Jersey. Any more, it looks just like any other hill in the Sandhills, excepting that the foliage growing on it tends to be a bit greener.
“Does [the femme] know yet, that they’ll be here? Maybe she could help you.â€
No, I said, “and I’ll wait until next week to tell her. This week’s a bad time.
“Three out of every four weeks, we get along like strawberries-and-cream; then each fourth week, I stay out of her way as much as possible, and if close to her, walk as if on eggshells I don’t want to break.â€
“Well, all women are like that,†she said; “I’m truly surprised you never noticed.â€
Oh, I noticed it a long time ago; “decades ago, I noticed it.
“And it’s never been right, for women to act that way.
“Women have no sense of fortitude; the least little thing, and they start whining.
- - - - - - - - - -
“We men go through the same things--not exactly the same things, but things like it--times when we get irritable, bitchy, grouchy, bent out of shape, and probably much of it’s both cyclical and organic, physical.
“But you never hear a man whine, ‘oh, but it’s that time of the month again…..’
“And when growing up, I don’t recall my mother ever whining. At times, one could sense that she was irritable or uncomfortable or despondent, but she never whined about it.â€
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/august/bridgeport_zps370a33a9.jpg) (http://s1100.photobucket.com/user/Eferrari/media/august/bridgeport_zps370a33a9.jpg.html)
“But by the time you could remember her, you mother was probably already in menopause,†the visitor commented.
“Yeah, sure,†I said, “that ‘change of life,’ after which women are supposed to get mellow, not having to deal with this other thing every four weeks.
“But I don’t believe it; even after they’re well into middle-age, they still have some sort of ‘cycle.’
“When my mother died, womanhood lost something. Fortitude.
“One can’t control one’s feelings, but one can control one’s behavior.
“Women still have a lot of virtues, but fortitude ain’t one of them.â€
“Oh man,†she said; “when Big Mo and her girls get here, you’re going to have lots of problems.â€
I’m not worried about it, I said; “always-level-headed, even-tempered, mellow, laid-back Big Mo can keep their attitudes in line.â€
to be continued
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I was outside changing the air in the automobile tires when I looked up, and lo and behold, were standing before me Italianate Jesus and a brother of hippyhubby Wild Bill’s, the one born with both eyes on the same side of his nose.
I’d been expecting them, but not for two and a half weeks yet, when the carnies come to camp here.
Italianate Jesus looks like his name implies; he’d been the number-two man to Rhinestone Santa, who headed a contingent of cultists belonging to the Bagwam Maharishi Rawalpindi Thiruvananthapura Yogi out in Oregon, who’d camped here three summers ago.
He’d later run away, and become a carnie.
The brother of hippyhubby Wild Bill’s been a carnie for years, but only part-time.
Louie’s carnival’s currently at a county fair north of here, after which it heads for South Dakota, and sooner or later turns around and comes back down here for our county fair, the last county fair of the season.
They’d driven all the way here to ask if they could camp here the rest of the weekend, before they have to head north. It’ll make for a one-way commute of 82 miles the next three days, but they were okay with that; they didn’t care much for where they were at.
Apparently Italianate Jesus had gotten into a fight with some local up there, and busted him up pretty good.
And apparently Wild Bill’s brother had made some moves on a local woman who didn’t wanted moved on.
I said yeah, sure, whatever, no problem.
- - - - - - - - - -
Having already anticipated an affirmative, they had all of their camping gear with them.
We went out to the back porch to have drinks, they alcoholic, me a flower-vase of iced milk.
Wild Bill’s brother looked longingly towards the river 500 yards away, where they’d camped the last time they were here. He looked through the telescope screwed onto a railing of the back porch, spotting the miniature Swiss Alpine chalet, now surrounded by transplanted roses, geraniums, mums, begonias, and other flowers.
He had no idea what it was, but I suddenly thought of something.
“There’s construction going on down there,†I said; “you’ll have to use where you’re supposed to camp during the county fair, on the property adjacent.â€
Actually, the sanitary facilities for Big Mo and her girls isn’t quite done, but done enough to be usable, and if the two camped there, they might think it was okay to use it, when I wished instead to have CaliforniaPeggy be the one to break it in.
- - - - - - - - - -
We sat around for a while, as they updated me on what’s going on with them.
Italianate Jesus has slowly been losing his paranoia--he’d been really jumpy a couple of years ago--but still had some concern that the Bagwam Maharishi Rawalpindi Thiruvananthapura Yogi and Rhinestone Santa were still looking around for him, as he “knows too much†about how the commune’s run.
Wild Bill’s brother assured me that probably hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer and hippyhubby Wild Bill won’t be coming up here any more, as I ostensibly “put the fear of God into that Godless old reprobate.â€
“He thinks he got baptized when you were wrestling around with him in the water.
“Wild Bill’s different now; he’s scared and nervous and uptight, afraid that ‘fundies’ have stolen his mind; he’s sure there’s some sort of invisible parasite eating away at him on the inside, and’s gotten to using all sorts of purgatives and laxatives and Epsom salts to blow it out.â€
Too bad for hippyhubby Wild Bill, I thought; but it’s all worry for nothing, because nothing happened.
It was raining when I’d arrived at the river-side, where Lamond, the MrsCorpio primitive, looking very much like a sunglassesed Ray Charles in the garb of the Archbishop of Canterbury, was baptizing the masses; the crowds were confining, and I twisted and squirmed my way to the front.
Upon seeing me standing there, Lamond became transfixed, like John the Baptist, raising his crozier into the air, announcing, “Behold the Son of God has cometh.â€
I don’t mean to sound sacrilegious or irreverent, because I’m not. But I have no control over the delusions of other people.
hippyhubby Wild Bill in the meantime had been in a boat, circling in the water, hollering and cursing at the “Jesus freaks,†when I raised my hand to silence Lamond…..at the very same moment there struck a bolt of lightning, knocking Wild Bill into the water.
to be continued
-
The property caretaker, after dropping off his stuff from other jobs and heading home for supper, invited me to come down to the river-side to check out the sanitary facilities being built for Big Mo and the girls, but principally for the ease and comfort of CaliforniaPeggy.
It’s been torridly hot and I didn’t want to go down there, but he insisted.
“It’s almost done, and I need to know before I finish up, if you want any changes.â€
“Well, if it makes CaliforniaPeggy happy, then I’m happy,†I insisted.
But still, he had me check it out.
It was as if a child’s playhouse of the sort commonly found in backyards when I was a kid, in the design of a Swiss Alpine chalet.
“I made it this way, and out of scrap materials, because you wanted only a temporary structure, and I figure once the primitive women have been here and gone, I could haul it to the children’s playground at the city park and set it up there--minus, of course, what’s inside.â€
“Okay, what did you use inside?†I asked.
“A Clivus Multrum,†he said, “that I picked up at a garage sale in the big city. It was unused, still in its original packing from Sweden. Odor-free.â€
I opened the door and looked inside. “It looks like an ordinary commode,†I said, “but I’ll take your word on how it works, no problem.â€
I looked at it again. “Good,†I added; “it’s high.
“Given CaliforniaPeggy’s ancient age and her sore and aching joints, we want her to be able to just ‘sit,’ not ‘sit down.’
“I think it’ll work.â€
I made a move to return to the house, but he stopped me. “Wait, you haven’t seen everything.â€
There was a water-wheel, about four feet high, on the side.
When one goes inside and sits, water gets fed onto the wheel, which then turns.
“But that’s not all; you can’t hear it, but as the wheel turns, a music box plays Ach du lieber Augustin, Augustin, Augustin…..â€
to be continued
-
The neighbor’s wife came over after supper--this time with all five kids--to drop off some stuff.
“I just got word Big Mo’s bringing yet two more,†I announced.
“There’s plenty of room here for a primitive meet-up, but I hope you and Big Mo can handle it.
“The first of the new commitments is the elleng primitive, the primitive who hates her husband even though he’s dead.
“He died from utter exhaustion; he tried his best to please her, he catered to her every whim and caprice, he gave her everything she asked for, but it wasn’t enough.
“The second’s the William769 primitive--â€
“Now wait,†the neighbor’s wife said; “that sounds like a guy.â€
Yeah, it is, I said; another guy along with Skippy. “But Wills is part of the gaiety crowd, and so despite that this is an anti-men get-together, he’s harmless to women, so Big Mo invited him.â€
“Who’s all in so far?†she asked.
“Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, the cbayer primitive, the NJCher primitive, the great-aunt from Chicago, Skippy, LynneSin, the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive, the raccoon-bitten Aerows primitive, and now the husband-hating elleng primitive and Wills.
“You know I’m going to write about all this, and that each primitive’s going to get her or his own individual chapter, or ‘profile,’ usually a colorful description of their first encounter with franksolich, although none of them are aware I’m franksolich.
“It’s a tolerable group so far, but there’s one mean bitch in it that you’ll have to watch for.
“That insufferable snob the NJCher primitive.
“You need to see what she said on Skins’s island today:
I was living in the midwest, where I was born, in the midst of "conservative" types. They were driving me nuts with their backwards policies. I used to hate seeing outdoor boards that were anti-choice, for example. I was a born radical and in those days, Berkeley was the place to be. I asked my dad to send me to school there, but being somewhat of a conservative, he declined.
While I worked in several radical (at the time, now mainstream) political groups in the midwest, I still couldn't stand the slow pace. I also believed in myself and didn't want to waste my career in some backwater small city.
I decided to seek a job where I could work in the "big time" of my field. That meant NYC. Oddly enough, I applied for three jobs with major Fortune 100 firms, received three offers, and enjoyed a terrific career in media. They even moved me, found me a place to live, and paid for everything.
As a result, I largely got away from republicans and took up residence in a very liberal town. I soon began seeing how important it is to live in an area where one shares at least broad political views with one's fellow residents. I continued to work for liberal causes, only now I felt I was really among my peers.
“In fact, she’s such a rectal aperture I think she’s too big of a job for you to handle.
“So probably I’ll have to deal with her myself, to put her back in her place.â€
to be continued
-
Frank, do you know exactly where in the Midwest Cherie is from? Looks to me like she had family in Omaha, NE and Port O'Connor, TX? She omits everything but "West Orange, NJ" on her FB page.
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Frank, do you know exactly where in the Midwest Cherie is from? Looks to me like she had family in Omaha, NE and Port O'Connor, TX? She omits everything but "West Orange, NJ" on her FB page.
She's a primitive, and has a vast ignorance of geography.
To a primitive, the "midwest" can be western Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Iowa, too.
She has no idea what the "midwest" is, although she could look at an atlas and see what's east, what's west, what's north, what's south, and what's "mid."
I swear, she's not a tenth as smart as she thinks she is.
-
“This effete elitist snob reminds me of the film critic Pauline Kael, who moved in such rarified circles that when Richard Nixon won re-election in 1972 carrying 49 out of 50 states, she was confused as to why Nixon had won, because ‘I don’t know anybody who voted for him,’†I said to the neighbor's wife.
I pulled a book out of a drawer of the buffet, Michelin’s Haute cuisine d’Nebraska nord-est.
“It’s in French. There’s no English translation, because Michelin figures Americans already know this stuff anyway, and what’s already commonly known doesn’t sell books.
“Please notice even Swede’s wife’s bar has a three-star rating.
“I’m going to take this sanctimonious bitch out to dine in every three-star restaurant in this book, and she’d better bring along a big fluffy beach-towel, to wipe off all the egg that’s going to splatter her face.â€
to be continued
-
The Michelin guide was originally designed as a travel brochure to promote driving, automobile use, and (naturally) the purchase of new tires when the old ones wore out. Nothing more.
-
You know I'm writing this as I go along; it's wholly spur-of-the-moment, first draft.
I'm bored using hippywife, grasswire, and Atman as the villains in stories; once vibrant, colorful, and lively characters, they're old and stale now. I need a new primitive to pick on, to mock and deride its pretensions of holier-than-thouness.
And so in the manner of that old movie It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World--not the plot, but its use of a whole lot of big-name stars--I decided to unleash a vast horde of PoP, primitives of prominence, to see which one's character develops, evolves, the best for use in future stories.
Until now, it wasn't working very well, because most of Big Mo's crowd has at least a trace, a tincture, an iota, of decency in them that inhibits one from making fun of them. I wanted a 100% pure unadulterated primitive; a 99.9% primitive isn't enough.
It's early in this story, but I suspect I found the one.
-
Having borrowed money--Swedish plumbing isn’t cheap--from the business partner, when the property caretaker showed up this morning, I started writing a check to him, for the Clivus Multrum commode, when he stayed my hand.
“You built the thing out of scrap materials, which were just laying around here not being used for anything,†I pointed out, “but you had to go out and specially spend money for this, a private request of mine, and per the lease, I’m responsible for those expenses.
“Although I’m not sure what to do with this…..this…..this thing, after Big Mo’s party leaves.â€
No, he said; “I’m taking it, to install in my hunting cabin [on the shores of the Missouri River seventy miles distant]. It’s always a pain, on a cold rainy grey day in November, to step outdoors for the standing-up business, and to drive twelve miles to the nearest town for the sitting-down business.â€
It needs noted that indoor plumbing was invented before Nebraska was, and so unlike the congested filthy germ-ridden blue states, we never went through this phase of more-primitive facilities.
I, for example, never even saw an outhouse until I was 11 years old…..and it was in New Jersey.
- - - - - - - - - -
Grabbing a cup of coffee, the caretaker sat down at the kitchen table.
“Well,†he said; “in two weeks, they’ll start showing up here.â€
“But we’ve still got a lot to do,†I commented.
“For example,†we have to provide clean water for Big Mo and the others.â€
“Now wait,†the caretaker protested; “I’ve always suggested you have me run a pipe from this house to down there, for the convenience of campers--â€
“And I always said ‘no,’†I interrupted, “because if I put too many amenities down there, I’d be swamped with people wanting to camp here.
“When people hear that they have to bring their own water, or get it from here, a 500-yard trek through the meadow, it cuts down considerably on the number who want to camp here.
“But last night while sleeping, I had a nightmare about Big Mo or one of the others having to put one of those wooden yokes behind their necks, to haul water in two buckets, one at each end of the yoke, from here to down there.
“These’ll mostly be women who’ve borne infants, and so life’s already been hard enough on them, their bodies broken, their strength exhausted--they deserve some ease and comfort.
“And we have to do something so they have hot water, too.
“All temporary, of course.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
I rummaged through my mind, thinking of other things that needed done.
“You know,†I finally said, “Big Mo’s bringing her chickens here too.
“I dunno how she plans to keep them, but we can’t have them running around here uncorraled, splattering their droppings all over the place, making a mess of things.
“There’s that hazard of hookworm, and we all know how hookworm’s devastated dear old sweet Lu, making her too sick and weak and tired to tend to her duties as hostess of the cooking and baking forum.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
Then my hair stood up on end, a sense of urgency in my voice.
“We have to figure out a way so the carnies don’t discover the women.
“It’s true the groups’ll be separated by about a mile, and around a curve in the river so they can’t see each other.
“And Big Mo’s people, to get to their camp-site, have to use the ‘road’ that runs alongside the river from the highway two miles north of here, while the carnies, to get to their camp-site, have to drive right through the middle of this property, past the William Rivers Pitt.
“But still, the carnies might discover the women, after which one might as well cry havoc, them running amok in an orgy of pillage, plunder, rapine.
“Big Mo’s the only one with balls to fight them off; CaliforniaPeggy because of her great age would have a heart-attack, and the others, well, they’d just meekly submit.
“And then it’d get in the newspapers, and I’d hear no end of it.â€
to be continued
-
It’s a hot miserable Saturday afternoon and so when I was preoccupied polishing the light-bulbs in the ceiling light-fixtures, I was happy no one was around to hear me storm and curse.
It’s an ordeal, doing this particular chore; the ceilings are pretty high, and one has to use a step-ladder to get up there, carefully undo the intricate coverings, polish the bulbs, replace the complicated frosted-glass coverings, and go down the step-ladder again, on to the next one.
I thought no one was around, when I suddenly saw a flicker of movement near a doorway.
I carefully went down the ladder--I’m physically agile, but being deaf, I have no natural sense of balance--and upon reaching the floor, found the wife of the retired banker standing in the doorway.
She’d just wanted to say “hello;†she was here to collect some of the William Rivers Pitt, for her gardens in town. She’s a prize-winning gardener, and her seven gardens have been featured in national magazines before, full-color full-page spreads.
She uses no fertilizer but that from the William Rivers Pitt, a Jungfrau-looking mound of antique swine excrement dating from 1875-1950; back from when pigs were fed table-scraps and garden produce with no chemicals or adulterants in them.
- - - - - - - - - -
The wife of the retired banker is 84 years old, but looks no older than a well-kept 70.
She resembles no one more so than the late H.R.H. Alice Montagu-Douglas-Scott, the dowager Duchess of Gloucester, not only in appearance, but in the grace and elegance of her manners. She was wearing a plain unadorned light grey dress, and a big white floppy hat with fake flowers on it. Diamond earrings, pearl necklace, and bracelets too of course, but oddly also pink tennis shoes.
Her husband, the 86-year-old Grumpy, wears his plaid polyester pants hiked clear up past his midriff.
But Grumpy wasn’t with her, because it’s too hot.
Instead, she’d brought along her 11-year-old grandson, to put shovelfuls of the William Rivers Pitt into aluminum one-bushel containers in the bed of the pick-up truck.
I’m not all that familiar with the world of kids, but I suspect the grandson’s what his peers might call “the class nerd;†four-eyed and a bit chubby.
He’d heard I’d recently got a haircut, and so was anxious to come out this day. Years ago, he’d heard that I was born without ears, and since then has left no stone unturned in endeavors to see what I look like under my hair.
Normal kid curiosity, I suppose, but I don’t care much for it.
And much to his disappointment, the barber as usual had done a skilful job, keeping covered up the absence of ears.
- - - - - - - - - -
I mentioned to the wife of the retired banker that I was having special visitors two weeks hence, Big Mo and a horde of anti-men primitives camping down on the river.
“Oh, but since it’s you, they’ll have a great time,†she said; “if anybody, you can change their attitude.â€
I escorted her and her grandson out to the back porch, where they looked at the miniature Swiss Alpine chalet 500 yards away, through the telescope that’s mounted and screwed to a porch-railing.
“What a charming outhouse,†she said; “but it’s awfully close to the river, and surely it’s not just a hole in the ground.â€
No, I assured her; “what’s inside is a Clivus Moltrum--â€
I had to say no more; she knows all about Clivus Moltrums, besides hundreds of other composting utilities.
- - - - - - - - - -
I find the wife of the retired banker unnerving at times. She oozes grace and class and elegance out of every pore in her being, but once in a while she talks about things even hardened coarse crude sewer workers are hesitant to articulate.
During a summer about five or six years ago, when a Ph.D. student was studying the William Rivers Pitt as a soil-science project, the student, the wife of the retired banker, and I were sitting at the dining-room table, supping upon broccoli-and-cheese.
My eyes grew as big as saucers as I watched the other two talk about the qualities of swine excrement as compared with other sorts of manure, including human, as casually as if discussing the differences between a woolen bed-spread and a cotton bed-spread.
- - - - - - - - - -
After she finished describing the workings of a Clivus Moltrum, I offered, “well, I suppose it’d make good compost, good fertilizer.â€
No, she said; “it wouldn’t be worth it--even with all those women, including one of them so elephantine she probably puts out mountains, and even for a whole week, by the time the Clivus Moltrum got done with everything, it wouldn’t be but a regular-sized brick of grey ash.â€
Since I didn’t want it put into the water, I proposed that it be tossed onto the William Rivers Pitt, to augment, even if only minusculely, the fertilizing properties of that.
No, she said, alarmed; “actually the best solution would be to deposit it at a nuclear-waste storage facility.
“These are primitive women, women who dine upon pharmaceuticals as if fistfuls of popcorn, and what’s ingested of course gets ‘processed’ and then eliminated. Their wastes are loaded with all sorts of drugs.
“The next-best thing would be to have [the property caretaker] just toss the brick into a campfire so it’ll all burn up, and he’d know enough to stay upwind of the fumes.â€
to be continued
-
Wow, frank! These really need to be in book form. The DUmmies would probably be the first in line to buy one, just to see if they're in any of the stories, attention whores that they are.
Cindie
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Wow, frank! These really need to be in book form. The DUmmies would probably be the first in line to buy one, just to see if they're in any of the stories, attention whores that they are.
But always keep in mind, heart of my heart, love of my love, about who it's dedicated to.
I have nothing against decent and civilized women, nor anything in particular against the primitives starring in this story.....I have a lot against the screeching banshee she-women of Skins's island.
They for example whine and bitch and moan about "sexism" in the English language, alleging it's the worst, the most violent, crime against women.
But think of poor Big Mo, walking from this house to the campground, a yoke on the back of her neck, two buckets of water at each end of the yoke.
Of all the water in the world that's transported by human labor, I'll bet nearly all of it's on women's shoulders.
And the women's-libbers on Skins's island think they're used and oppressed.
-
“So…..tell me why you don’t advertise this,†I said to Swede, the cook of Norwegian derivation whose specialty is Italianate cuisine, when the femme and I showed up at the bar for supper, shoving the Michelin guidebook, Haut cuisine d’Nebraska nord-est at him.
“That book’s in French,†he said; “I don’t want to read it.â€
“You have a three-star rating,†I reminded him. “We’re not talking small potatoes here.â€
“Yeah, I remember when the wife got a letter with all these French stamps on it,†he said. Swede’s wife owns the bar. “It was all French, no readable language, with all these papers, and a certificate on really good high quality top-notch parchment.
“To us, it looked like one of those ‘we found your family coat-of-arms, and if you send us thirty bucks, we’ll send you a copy’ scams, so into the trash it went.
“Later on, we found out what was up, but we didn’t care.
“We want people to dine here because they like the food, not because some frog told them to.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
The femme and I took a table. She’s still going through “that time,†and I had to be careful, because the least little thing can set her off like a ton of dynamite.
I ordered my usual, a hamburger very well done, pressed down hard on the grill so as to squeeze out every drop of grease, french fries cooked on the grill and not in the fryer, and a side-dish of sour cream.
The femme, who’d been with some of her students doing a performing-arts thing at a nearby county fair, was still dressed in her Elizabethan finery--the show had been about English dances of the Renaissance--her dark blonde hair tinted a tiny little bit red.
As it was a hot day, she ordered lightly; crostini con condimenti misti, ragù alla salsiccia, pane casareccio, bucatini alla sorrentina, risotto con la lüganega, caciocavallo, and for dessert, cannolo siciliano.
Despite the inauspiciousness of the time of the month, I decided to tell her that Big Mo and a whole horde of men-hating primitives were going to be at my place during the county fair.
But alarmed for her safety because she can eat like a bison without putting on an ounce, while they can munch on a celery-stalk and lard on more poundage, I commented, “they’re not nice people; you wouldn’t want to meet them.â€
The jealous harpies would scratch her eyes out, among other violent stuff, if they saw that.
She said that was fine; she’d be busy doing the shows at our county fair anyway, with little or no time for social courtesies.
- - - - - - - - - -
Somewhere along the line, I mentioned that the property caretaker and I were going to be designing some sort of system--temporary--to transport water from the house down to the camp-side, for their convenience.
“That’s odd,†she said; “you never worried about anybody there’s convenience before.â€
This is a special case, I reminded her. “These are women who’ve borne infants, doing a lot of wear-and-tear on their bodies, weakening them, and so I want to make their lot in life easier.
“I had nightmares last night of Big Mo, the only one who’s got any muscle, and hence the only one capable of doing it, putting a wooden yoke on the back of her neck, with two buckets for water hanging from each end, carrying that load from near the back porch all the way through the meadow down to the river-side.
“Big Mo’s got some heft, but it’d be Calvary for her, a stumbling via dolorosa.â€
“Well, lucky for her you’re her host,†the femme said, “franksolich, friend and reliever of the weak and oppressed, the taker-on of their burdens.â€
The femme’s usually a kind, sensitive, caring person, in case one forgets.
It’s just the time of the lunar month, that makes her this way.
“You know, I can’t figure it out,†she said; “you’re a man, but at the same time, you’re the biggest women’s-libber I’ve ever met, always concerned for the rights and well-being of women.â€
to be continued
-
Since it was so hot today, it was pretty late when others stopped by; in fact, it was already pitch-dark.
I went over things with the property caretaker; “you know, we got 675 yards of garden hose on this property, and I don’t see why we just can’t run the hose down to the river-side, and put a shut-off valve at that end.
“It’d be water coming through a hose, but it’d be good water.
“And obviously, it’d be temporary.â€
“No,†the property caretaker said; “I have a better idea, and when I’m in [the big city] on Monday, I’ll get the stuff for it.
“But you’ll have to give up any idea for providing hot water, and for giving Big Mo air-conditioning down there, because both you and I’ll be too busy to do anything about those.
“After the water’s there, we can do something about confinement for Big Mo’s chickens, but that’ll have to be it.
“But hey, for people who want to ‘rough it,’ they got no reason to complain.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
The neighbor, the neighbor’s wife, and their five children came over late in the evening, as it was now cool enough for him to work on a tractor out in the garage. The kids hung around with him, while the neighbor’s wife and I went to sit on the back porch.
I was really concerned about the femme, these stupid mood-changes, and confided in the neighbor’s wife, as I always do on anything regarding women problems.
“Well no, she’s concerned about you,†the neighbor’s wife said. “She thinks you’re setting yourself up for yet another catastrophic disappointment, and you’re no good when you’re in a funk after one of those.
“She thinks you need to stop it, stop trying to get everybody to like you.
“Almost everybody likes you as it is--you’re a very likeable person--but it’s impossible to expect everybody to like you, no matter how hard you try.
“It seems an obsession with you; you want 100% of everybody, no exceptions, who comes your way, to like you. ‘Almost everybody’ or ‘ninety-nine percent of everybody’ isn’t good enough; you think you won’t be happy until everybody likes you.
“It must be some trauma from your childhood.
“[the femme] already knows you’re going to break your neck, trying to get all these anti-men primitives to like you--you’re going to do anything and everything to get them to like you.
“You put more energy into lost causes, than in winning ones.
“But it’s futile; there’s just some people in the world who don’t like nice guys.
“Look at the primitives who’ll be here, for whom you’re working desperately so they’ll be comfortable, and hence get to like you.
“Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, and the cbayer primitive might end up liking you a little bit, but all the rest are hopeless; they’re nasty, negative, rude, self-pitying, unpleasant, selfish, malicious, annoying, exasperating, disgusting, people, and you could give them earth and heaven, and still, they’re not going to like you. They’re never going to like you; you need to understand that.â€
I ruminated upon that.
Well, okay, I finally said; “I’ll be nice to Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, and the cbayer primitive, but towards all the rest, I’ll make an effort to be really rude and offensive, seeing as it won’t matter anyway.â€
to be continued
-
When I got up this morning, I noticed the red light on the telephone answering-machine was blinking.
Because I can’t hear, usually I just wait until someone who can hear, shows up, and listens for me.
However, I noticed from the “caller identification†screen that it was dutch508, who’d called during the middle of the night from his cattle barony on the other side of the Sandhills 300 miles west of here.
Sometimes I can make out what’s being said on the machine, by pressing it very closely to my head, some part where the layer of the skin is the thinnest, so as to facilitate bone-conduction. It’s sometimes adequate; not always, but sometimes.
Curious because it was dutch508, perhaps giving a report on the unannounced arrival or an unanticipated guest from Minneapolis, I jammed the machine against my lower jaw.
It was dutch508, yelling and swearing and cursing at me, but I still couldn’t decipher much more than that; only that he was all upset and bent out of shape.
Excresence happens; I was going to have to have a hearing person listen to it for me after all.
I put down the machine, but being distracted by something outdoors, while I meant to press the “save†button for the message, I hit the one next to it instead.
to be continued
-
“Why’d he do that?†the nephew asked; “why’d he direct her to there, instead of here?â€
“Because [the business partner]’s a sensitive, caring guy, my best friend, who knew I was going to have no time to spend with a hysterical primitive woman, and that I had no desire to, either.
“She’s got really big jugs, and I’m no fan of supersized jugs. I like women who are appropriately proportioned, everything on them exactly the right size.
“dutch508, on the other hand…..â€
The distraction that’d caused me to inadvertently delete, rather than save, the telephone message had been one of my nephews stopping by a visit. He’d been in Omaha for a few days, and was now on his way back to Denver. Omaha-Denver is a straight line running southwest, and this detour causes an “arc,†northwest from Omaha and then southwest to Denver, but he wasn’t in any hurry anyway.
“What makes you think she fell for it?†the nephew asked; “I mean, you’re here, and dutch508 is way over on the other side of the Sandhills--â€
“She thinks she’s intelligent,†I interrupted, “and people who think they’re smart usually aren’t; in fact, they’re usually dumber than a rock.
“Although no blonde, she’s got big ones, she’s a primitive, a women’s-libber, from a blue state, and thinks she‘s smart. She knows nothing about the geography of Nebraska. She fell for it.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
I have several nephews, all of them adults and some of them near my own age, as I’d been a late child.
Most are married with children, and they live all over, usually in blue states.
My relations with their parents, my older brothers and sisters, when their parents were still in this time and place, had always been strained, the vast chasm in our ages not being the only reason. We all had come from a good family, great parents, but when I was a kid, they’d evolved into hippies, liberals, and Democrats.
I always attributed the early deaths of the parents, who were only middle-aged at their demise, to all the worry and stress and tension the older brothers and sisters caused them, which then deprived me of the care and concern and guidance of parents at too early of an age.
The nephews are the only “family†I have left, and yes, while it’s unfair to blame the sins of the parents on the children, I’m not much more comfortable with them, than I had been with their parents, my older siblings.
However, myself being a mature person, our relations are at least formally cordial.
And there’s a lot of relations between people that are a lot worse than merely “formally cordial,†so it’s all copacetic, cool, okay.
- - - - - - - - - -
This particular nephew had been a favorite of his mother, who considered him a sensitive creature of the “artistic†sort, and so he’d gone away to college to become an artist.
The only problem being, he’s got no artistic talent in him, and it’s obvious this uncle of his isn’t the only one who thinks so, because now approaching 40 years of age, he works in a coffee shoppe in Denver, where he sits around all day with other hippie wannabes, griping about “the Man,†Republicans, conservatives, “rightâ€-wingers, pro-lifers, George Bush, “fundies,†“oppressors of women,†Jews, Israel, and whatever else primitives don’t like.
It can be said for him, however, that these are not his honest sentiments, of which like Skippy he has none; he’s just aping the attitudes and feelings of people he likes, nothing more than that.
He lives with a primitive women’s-libber, who’s a registered nurse. I’ve heard from the other nephews that she’s nuts, not all there, but I’ve never met her. I dunno why, because I’m a nice guy, but it’s said she’s “afraid†to meet me in person.
Some years ago he got tired of her, and tried to break away, but couldn’t. The deal is, he works in a coffee shoppe, and she’s a registered nurse--meaning that, essentially, she’s his means of support. And he’s not cheap to support, given his liking for expensive bicycles, mountain treks, camping out in exotic places.
All for which she, not he, pays.
She’s a silly woman, but I think it’s unmanly of him to parasite on her like that, to use her like that, but he doesn’t pay attention to what franksolich thinks.
One has to love him as a member of the family, but it’s more of a duty than a joy.
- - - - - - - - - -
I explained to him that Big Mo’s going to hold a vast convention, a big primitive get-together, of men-haters, right here on this property.
“That should be fun,†he said; “I wish I could come up to see it--it’ll be epic, franksolich alone against the primitives.â€
to be continued
-
The business partner came by here on his way home early in the evening; as it’s time to clear out the refrigerator in preparation for a big cook-out here this coming Thursday, we dined on the some of the leftovers still in there, left over from previous cook-outs.
He fixed himself a big steak and a salad; I found a couple of already-cooked dried out hamburgers, and warmed those up on the grill, and for a change of pace, used sour cream instead of ketchup as the topping.
Italianate Jesus and hippyhubby Wild Bill’s brother, the one born with both eyes on the same side of his nose, were here to pick up their camping gear, as the carnival this night’s going up into South Dakota, and it’ll be too far for them to commute, no matter how much trouble they get into up there.
They’ll be back here on Saturday, August 9, to start getting things set up for this county fair the following week, the same day that Big Mo promised to arrive, after which the deluge. They joined us, and like the business partner had steak and salad, and then took off.
“Nice guys,†the business partner said; “with them around, one doesn’t need a security force--or a zoo--as I imagine they pretty much scare people off.â€
Yeah, I said; “the salt of the earth, good people, carnies, great people. I love having them around.â€
But then I thought of something, getting worried.
“I still haven’t figured out how to keep the carnies from discovering the men-hating primitive women camping here; if they do, it’ll make the Sack of Rome in 1527 look like a Victorian tea-party in an English country garden.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
The business partner had brought my mail from the post office in town; he usually does this because my mail’s on his way, while I have to go out of my way to get it.
There was a confirmation from Big Mo in Illinois--it was addressed in my real name, as none of them know that I’m franksolich--thanking me for the “privilege†(her word, not mine) of holding a primitive get-together here, verifying that they’ll all be here from Saturday August 9 through Sunday August 17, and as she’s bringing her chickens, inquiring if there’s any regulations as to the keeping of them here.
“She seems really concerned about that--maybe Illinois has a lot of regulations, or something--and so I’ll get back to her right away,†I said. “This land’s zoned as ‘agricultural,’ and as tenant I’m the regulator, and as regulator, I’ll assure her it’s okay.
“[the property caretaker] and I haven’t yet figured out how to confine them so nobody gets hookworm--my hair still turns white at the image of dear old sweet Lu of the cooking and baking forum on Skins’s island suffering from them, rendering her too listless, lethargic, and lazy to do her job there as hostess.
“I’m sure we’ll figure out something, though, so that Big Mo’s chickens are just as comfortable as Big Mo herself, and don't spread any diseases around.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
Uh oh, I said.
“And here’s a letter from Kali, not to be confused with the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive, who’s already coming, who lives down in southernmost Texas.
“Kali wants to come, but I’m not sure. I’ll have to think about her.
“After all, she was the primitive who so crudely and violently assailed Big Mo, and no critic of Big Mo is any friend of franksolich’s.
“When I write Big Mo, I’ll also ask if she cares or not.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
Oh my, I said.
“Here’s a letter from CaliforniaPeggy, confirming that she’ll show up Sunday August 10, and stay through Saturday morning August 16--she’s coming late and leaving early because first-class airline seats from California to Omaha are mostly booked as it is, and so she has to take what she can get.
“But mostly it’s an expression of appreciation.
“And hand-written on watermarked linen stationery, too.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
I continued sifting through the mail.
“And from the cbayer primitive in Italy, of course thanking me, but inquiring if kale’s available in markets around here, or if she has to bring her own.â€
“That’s the lettuce with purple on it, right?†the business partner asked.
Yeah, I said, “I dunno what difference the purple makes, but if the cbayer primitive wants it, it’s available, and so I’ll write her back and tell her. I’ll remind her we even have lettuce with orange in it too.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
I laughed. “Now, this is funny.
“Here’s a letter from Ms. Vanderbilt in New Jersey, the NJCher primitive, asking if there’s snakes out here, and how they’re prevented.
“I’m not sure what to tell her, because while I’ve never seen a snake here all the years I’ve lived here, it appears there’s some people who disagree.â€
“There’s snakes out here, I assure you,†the business partner said. “It’s just that you don’t pay attention, and so you don’t see them.â€
“Well, I’ll write Ms. High-and-Mighty to not worry, that I’ve never seen a snake out here.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
I pulled out another letter.
“Here’s one from Wills, the William769 primitive, asking about the ‘gay scene’ in northeastern Nebraska.
I have no idea how to answer that; I guess I’ll just write him telling him he’ll have to check it out himself.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
I noticed an envelope written in a hand unknown to me, and so quickly opened it.
“Wow,†I said. “Guess who also wants to come even though, strictly speaking, she’s not a primitive.
“Her husband is though; in fact, he’s a PoP, a primitive of prominence, and frequent award-winner in the Top DUmmies.
“Poor dear Marta says that while she loves her husband, the big guy in Bellevue, she needs time away from him, and would like to come, if she can.
“Poor dear Marta makes great rhubarb pies.â€
to be continued
-
Hilarious. Fat Steve ranks below the Head Queen on Skins island.
I wish my own mail was that interesting.
-
The property caretaker was unloading a bunch of pipe from a 40’ trailer hitched to the back of his pick-up truck when I returned home from work today. There was a lot of it, and it was obviously for piping good water from the house down to the river.
I glanced at the invoice, and my hair turned grey.
The business partner’s always good for a loan, but the business partner’s not Andrew Mellon.
I was about to say something when the caretaker stopped me; “don’t worry about it; dad’s paying for it.
“The folks’ water pumping system has been going bad for a while, and this is a good excuse to replace it.
“And so after the she-women are gone, I’ll take it apart and take it to the folks’, and install it there.
“As the rest is going to be made out of scrap from around here, you’re still home free.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
“Well,†I told the femme, “you’re all concerned that I’m going to break my neck trying to make the primitives like me, that it’s going to fail no matter what I do, after which I’ll feel like a failure, and be in a funk, discouraged and downcast about it for weeks.
“I had no idea my moods affect you; as far as I’ve ever seen, I’m always the same; yesterday, today, tomorrow, always the same. Laid back, mellow, nonchalant.
“Okay, I accept that all the primitives, excepting maybe, perhaps Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, and the cbayer primitive, aren’t going to like me no matter what I do, no matter what I am.
“It’s just not in them to like nice guys.
“And so there’s no point in even trying to get them to like me.
“I’m going to try to not be a nice guy, but it’s not in me to be rude and offensive.
“But for you, I’ll try to not be my usual self, and do my best to turn off most of the primitives coming here, since they aren’t going to like me anyway, no matter what.
“I need to find a book, though; How to Make Enemies and Turn People Off; it doesn’t appear in any of Dale Carnegie’s published works.â€
“Maybe there’s no such book,†she replied.
“There has to be,†I said; “and surely it’s got to be a best-seller.
“Otherwise, where else would the primitives pick up what they know about it?â€
to be continued
-
When the neighbor was here today, he suggested, “you know, one thing you could have, just in case the carnies discover the primitives’ anti-men meet-up, maybe a pole down there with an old air-raid siren on top, for Big Mo to blast away, telling you that they need help.â€
I looked at him as if he were Bozo from Outer Space.
“Now, what good would that do?
“Remember, I’m deaf; I wouldn’t hear a siren if I were standing right next to it.â€
Oh, he said; “right.â€
He thought for a while, then said, “well, how about this?--a pole with a light on top, that can blink the Morse Code, telling you ‘send help’?â€
Well, it’s probably true that the Morse Code is one of those things Big Mo would know, I replied, “and CaliforniaPeggy probably learned it as a Girl Scout back in 1951, and the cbayer primitive, being nautical, probably knows it too.
“And it’d be useful for telling if the carnies arrived by land or by water, and how many there are.
“But still, there’d be a problem.
“I wouldn’t know the light was blinking, a message being sent, unless I was looking at it.
“And I can’t sit on the back porch 24/7, watching for a light to blink.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
Later on, the neighbor’s wife dropped in, along with the two youngest of her children; she was bringing over stuff for the big cook-out to be held this coming Thursday evening.
“About things to do, I was thinking,†she said, “maybe they might like riding horses around the countryside?â€
I thought about this. “Yeah, and you’re exactly the person to show them a good time, with horses.
“Remember, however, that we’re assuming the primitive she-women’ll want to have something to do with us; maybe they won’t, maybe they plan to just sit down by the side of the river, moping.
“But also remember, these are soft city girls, and real live horses.
“Big Mo’s probably the only one with balls enough to actually get on a real live horse.
“CaliforniaPeggy probably would, if she could, but there’s this infirmities-of-old-age thing…..
“The rest of them, I wouldn’t trust them being safe riding a child’s rocking-horse.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/autumn/34-102_zps9c9cea58.jpg) (http://s1100.photobucket.com/user/Eferrari/media/autumn/34-102_zps9c9cea58.jpg.html)
Because she had the time, the neighbor’s wife, the children, and I walked down to the camp-site, to inspect the latest work of the property caretaker, who’d hooked up pipes running from the pump-house here for a good water supply down there.
At the end opposite, we stopped to behold a lilliputian replica of a Dutch windmill, with tulips planted around it.
“Made from scrap lumber,†the caretaker illuminated us. “I still have to paint it, but it’s mostly done.
“And then after it serves its purpose here, I’ll transport it to my brother’s house in town and put it in the back yard there, for his girls as a play-house or something."
I’m not exactly sure, but I think the caretaker’s nieces are six and four years old, and the windmill’s suited for that age and size. I’m a little under 6’3†tall, and each blade of the windmill was about my height, so one gets an idea of its size.
“Now,†the caretaker said, “there’s more to it,†as he demonstrated.
“You can’t hear it, but as the blades turn, pumping the water, there’s a music box that plays Frere Jacques, frere Jacques, dormez-vous? dormez-vous?
to be continued
-
When I got back from supper, the little red light on the telephone answering machine was blinking.
I usually can’t hear a message well enough to understand it, but looked at the “caller identification,†seeing that it was from dutch508 at his Connecticut-sized cattle barony on the other side of the Sandhills.
Given what’d happened the last time I’d tried to “listen†to a message, I decided that while I was impatient, it was best to wait until a hearing person showed up, to listen to it for me.
In the meantime, I fired off a letter to Kali, not to be confused with the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive, telling her I was “full up†for Big Mo’s primitive get-together. It’s a lie, because I could probably handle up to 200 of them--there’s been more than that out here, although just for beer parties, not camping--and I hadn’t yet heard back from Big Mo as to whether or not she had any objections, and she might not.
But Kali’s presumption in assailing Big Mo, more of a primitive than she is, had irritated me--a lesser has no right to criticize a greater--and too, I was uneasy about Kali’s plans to scatter the ashes of an obscure long-ago-departed fellow primitive here.
I also, sadly, wrote to Marta, the wife of the big guy in Bellevue, rejecting her request to come here for Big Mo’s get-together, as she doesn’t qualify, not being a bona fide primitive.
So at the moment, that leaves Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, the cbayer primitive, the NJCher primitive, the great aunt from Chicago, Skippy, LynneSin, the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive, the raccoon-bitten Aerows primitive, the husband-hating elleng primitive, and Wills the William769 primitive, but there’s probably going to be more.
- - - - - - - - - -
The neighbor’s older brother came by later, to drop off some steaks for Thursday’s big cook-out here, and with some dread, I asked him to listen to the message on the telephone answering machine for me.
The neighbor’s older brother and I are the same age--he’s only three weeks older--and so in theory should have much in common, but in practice we don’t. He’s done a lot more in his life than I ever did; a master’s degree in mathematics, a military veteran although he didn’t get into any wars, married with four children, and one of the biggest land-owners in the county; he wants to buy the property next to this, owned by Italianate interests in New Jersey, but the owners aren’t interested in selling, at least for the moment, as the place is too valuable of a tax-shelter.
He thinks that because I’m the way I am, I’m going to come to a bad end, and I worry about it because he’s rarely wrong on things.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Good God, man†he said; “dutch508’s in some kind of trouble with a woman.
“I’ve never heard a grown man cry like that.â€
“Well, it’s his own fault,†I said, unsympathetic. “After all, he’s the one who likes women with great big huge enormous jugs.
“dutch508 is a nice guy and all that, but in this case, he’s made his own bed.â€
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/autumn/dutchbedroom_zps7eb153b4.jpg)
http://conservativecave.com/index.php?topic=97448.0
to be continued
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The business partner came by in the morning, bringing my mail with him, which I read as we rode out to do something. It was a light day for mail.
There was another letter from Ms. Vanderbilt-Astor, the NJCher primitive, inquiring what sort of innoculations were required for visiting Nebraska.
“Yeah, and she lives within walking-distance of the germ-infected, virus-infested, Newark,†I said.
There was a letter from the Aerows primitive, asking if there were raccoons around the place.
“Nope,†I said; “I’ve never seen a raccoon.â€
“That doesn’t mean there aren’t any there,†the business partner pointed out; “remember, you have that habit of, uh, overlooking certain things. When I’ve gone over to your place late at night, I’ve seen them, and they’re knocking over things and getting into fights with the cats, making a lot of noise.
“Out in your front yard in the middle of the night, when they get into it with the cats and the coyotes, the racket’s deafening.â€
“Well, maybe,†I said; “but I’ve never seen any raccoons myself; as far as I know, all is peace-and-quiet during the middle of the night, and so I’m going to tell her I’ve never, myself, seen a raccoon around here.â€
There was a love-letter from the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive, but never mind.
And there was, finally, a letter from the Sarah Ibarruri primitive down over in Florida.
Yeah, I’ll tell her it’s okay for her to come, I said.
- - - - - - - - - -
“You know, it kind of bothers me,†the business partner said. “You’ve got two groups of people coming at the same time, one group that likes you, the other that doesn’t, and you’re concentrating far more on making the second group comfortable, than on the first.
“In fact, you don’t seem concerned at all for the ease and comfort of the carnies; you haven’t done a thing to make their site better.â€
“Carnies don’t need much,†I said.
“Well, they deserve a lot more than what you’re giving Big Mo and the man-hating she-women brigands,†he insisted.
“The carnies like you; they really like you.
“I think it’s because when they see you, they think, ‘aha, here’s a respectable person who acknowledges my existence, smiles at me, shakes my hand, and listens to me.’
“And when you’re with the femme, they’re reminded that you’re not embarrassed to introduce them to her as friends of yours, and she in turn acknowledges them, smiles at them, shakes their hands, and listens to them.
“The carnies think you--and her--are the nicest people they’ve ever met, and I think it’s a shame you’re not doing more over at their camp-site.â€
If the carnies need something, I’ll take care of it, I promised.
- - - - - - - - - -
New chapters.
“50 shades of frank,†franksolich gets seduced by BainsBane, by dutch508, rated R:
http://conservativecave.com/index.php?topic=97448.0
to be continued
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“Also,†the business partner went on, “I think while your worries about the carnies playing around with the she-women if they discover them are legitimate, I think you got another cause for worry that you haven’t thought of.
“Your good friend Romeo.â€
Everybody refers to him as “your good friend Romeo†because probably I’m the only friend the poor guy has, the only person around willing to have anything to do with him.
I’m not ready to rate this story--G, PG, R, X--yet, and so I’ll just quote from a previous story, as quotes from other stories aren't really a part of this story:
…..“Remember Romeo, from last night?†I was hoping she hadn’t gotten too tanked, because it was important that she remember Romeo, which is his nickname, not his real name.
“I know Romeo like the back of my hand,†I told her; “and while Romeo’s a good friend of mine, I need to warn you about him.
“Romeo’s one of the ranch-hands who works across the road, and keeps beer in one of the refrigerators in the garage here, for days when it’s hot. He’s unmarried, and makes good bucks because he’s a hard worker. Also, women tend to be attracted to him.
“But let me tell you, Romeo’s no good for women. He’s a tomcat, who uses women once, and then drops them. ‘A woman’s got one shot with me,’ he says, ‘and if she doesn’t pass the first time, there’s not going to be a second time.’
“No woman’s ever had a second time with Romeo, none’s been good enough for him, he says.
“Romeo’s a nice guy, a real charmer, but when it comes to women, he’s a real rectal aperture.
“He wants women only for their bodies, nothing more.â€â€¦..
…..“Oh my,†she said, admiringly. “You’re so very big.â€
He brushed it closer to her face.
“And oh my,†she added; “it’s really clean; it’s probably the cleanest one I’ve ever seen.
“Men who weren’t snipped, when the skin retracts, there’s all sorts of nasty-smelling crud underneath.â€
He smiled. “I can hardly wait to get it into you, babe, but not right now.â€
They were laying in the back of Romeo’s pick-up truck out in the middle of nowhere……
…..“What’d he give you, the telephone number?†I asked.
She recited off the numbers.
“He uses a cellular telephone,†I pointed out; “why don’t you call him right now, to tell him ‘good-bye’ and that you’ll be in touch?â€
She took her cellular telephone and dialed the number.
As I’d already figured out, it was the recorded “Dial-A-Prayer’ number.
“I think,†the business partner concluded, “you’re going to have to figure out how to keep your good friend Romeo away from them too; seeing all those women, he’ll want to hop around in the sack with every single one of them, even if he has to cover his eyes.â€
to be continued
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I'm thinking of carnies.
Who is the DUmmy carnie who lives in his car and travels with the carnival?
Seems to me he was facepainting kids or doing fake tattoos or something like that.
Cannot remember his name.
I doubt he'll show up in Nebraska during peak carnival season.
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I'm thinking of carnies.
Who is the DUmmy carnie who lives in his car and travels with the carnival?
Seems to me he was facepainting kids or doing fake tattoos or something like that.
Cannot remember his name.
I doubt he'll show up in Nebraska during peak carnival season.
That was the one that's incapable of making a grilled cheese sandwich. Chris something... (no relation).
-
Maybe it's different in other parts of the country, but around here, where many small carnivals are based in, oddly, Arkansas for the winter and travel northward during the summer and then back down there again, carnies tend to be dark, slight in stature, one or more major bodily defects (either natural birth-defects, such as crossed eyes, or artificially created, such as two fingers cut off in an accident or fight), possessive of criminal records minor or major.
For whatever reasons I've never been able to figure out, even though "foreign-looking" in a Mediterranic sort of way, they tend to be very articulate, very well-spoken; as a deaf person, I've never had problems understanding them. Perhaps the directness and simplicity of the language they use?--I dunno. They surely don't beat around the bush, and emphasize their points by vigorous jabbing.
Their personal hygiene sucks. Big time.
And this affects me more than it turns off hearing people, because of course I have to be close, very close, in order to catch what they're saying; at times, we're practically breathing into each other's throats.
In their defense however, it needs stressed that in my time, I've had to deal up close with other sorts of people, many of them obese carbuncled Democrats or desk-sitting governmental employees whose personal odor from afar reeks of perfume or cologne, but from nearby, the stench of rancid rotten decay.
Really; one gets a totally different perspective on people if one's having to smell them while communicating with them.
The sweat one exudes from honest labor has never offended these nostrils, and so I've always found greasy-dirt-under-the-fingernails carnies more tolerable than, uh, other sorts of people.
For the purposes of this story, it's reasonable to assume 40-50 carnies, about two-thirds sinister-looking males and about one-third coarse-looking tatoo'ed females, both of all shapes and sizes.....and all trying to run away from something, or someone.
-
I need a new primitive to pick on, to mock and deride its pretensions of holier-than-thouness. I wanted a 100% pure unadulterated primitive; a 99.9% primitive isn't enough.
It's early in this story, but I suspect I found the one.
Suggestions could be the raccon loving Aerows, the redqeen bitch, and/or the Fizzy chick with the butch haircut.
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Suggestions could be the raccon loving Aerows, the redqeen bitch, and/or the Fizzy chick with the butch haircut.
It's reasonable to assume that the fizzy one won't be in this story, as I'd already used her up pretty vigorously in a story last year, or whenever it was.
The point of that story had been, well, women want to play around a bit before men start poking them, and as the story evolved, franksolich played around with the fizzy one so much that she, wondering what was taking me so long especially since I'd looked "ready" to pop for hours, got impatient to get poked.
Hence, ergo, women should be careful about what they wish for.
I had anticipated making this into "the redqueen primitive seduces franksolich," but once the story got underway, I dropped the idea of including the redqueen primitive in any way, shape, or form; she's a turn-off to literary inspiration.
Some primitive femme's going to seduce franksolich--remember, though, this is mostly a work of fiction--but I want the characters to develop before I decide which one. However, Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, and the cbayer primitive can rest easily, because they're already being cast as the heroines, not the villains, of this story.
Those three will leave here their virtue still intact.
This story is truly writing itself; I just sit back, remembering real-life other people, other places, other times, taking all these unconnected people and experiences and trying to weld them into a consistent story. The primitives, the fictitious part of it, are in it just to spice it up.
Seriously, I have no idea beyond the next chapter, what's going to happen in it.
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Seriously, I have no idea beyond the next chapter, what's going to happen in it.
Not formulaic?
"Formulaic" was yesterday's English vocabulary word for nadin, and she beat it to death.
The day before it was "hubbub".
-
“I dare you,†she said, laughing.
Standing in the water opposite her, I pulled off my shorts and flung them away, so they’d float down the river to wherever, never to be found again, just as I’d done her halter-top earlier.
She’d acted the innocent, the naif, but as she was one of two women coming out here with Romeo, I’d already sensed what she was even when we were still fully clothed and sitting on the back porch, Romeo and the two women smoking dope, me drinking iced coffee.
But as she’d seemed reasonably clean and nobody was going to be around for a while, I’d had no objections when the other three decided we should all go for a swim, after which one thing led to another.
There was of course the femme to consider, but she wasn’t around--in fact, she’s in Omaha for the next few days--and alas she happened to not be around right as my male needs recrudesced.
I had my suspicions Romeo had specifically chosen this one for me, as she was exactly proportioned, while the trollop with him had big ones that sagged. He’d commented once that I had the “potential†to be “a Great One,†but just didn’t have the “right training;†that I needed some tutelage in the ars amatoria.
And myself being a nice guy always willing to get along with other people, had said “okay, sure, fine, whatever, show me….â€
- - - - - - - - - -
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/august/rightthere_zps970aac64.jpg) (http://s1100.photobucket.com/user/Eferrari/media/august/rightthere_zps970aac64.jpg.html)
Romeo and his woman were still laying on the sand at the edge of the river, cuddling and smooching, him caressing her flabby flaccidities and she playing with his pulsating hardness.
I pulled the shorts off my woman, and as with my shorts, tossed them so they’d float away, never to be retrieved.
Romeo and his woman finally dove into the water, although swimming away from us.
The two of us sought shallower water, where she laid in it and I laid on top of her, as we sucked face for a bit, at the same time me enjoying her properly-size pair while she groped and rubbed an appendage of mine. Although I wasn’t ready, she thought I was, and tried guiding me in there.
At the same moment, I looked up, past her head, seeing the village idiot sprawled under a bush on the shore, his mouth agape and his eyes as big as saucers.
to be continued
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(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/august/10-155_zps634de6b2.jpg) (http://s1100.photobucket.com/user/Eferrari/media/august/10-155_zps634de6b2.jpg.html)
“You know,†the business partner said, “I suppose by the standards of today’s society, you’re remarkably chaste.
“But really, how do you reconcile your conduct with your values?
“It’s a contradiction, your reputation as a fine, upstanding local personage with Great Moral Rectitude, and then you go and make out with a two-bit hussy. And then there’s [the femme] to consider.â€
“They all haven’t been cheap whores,†I protested; “in fact, the cleanest, most wholesome, time was the week that [the Ph.D. student who was here to study the William Rivers Pitt] and I were together here, about three years ago, during which time both of us hardly kept our clothes on, our hands off each other.
“You know she’s the epitome of Grace and Class and Cleanliness, a paragon of virtue and probity.
“But,†I continued, “that doesn’t answer your question.
“Yes, yes, yes, it’s a contradiction, and a blatant one.
“My illumination as a good Catholic boy was that one must strive to be good.
“And you know I have no argument with the theology, tradition, and practices of the Holy Roman and Catholic Church; I enthusiastically endorse and accept it, all of it, every bit of it.
“It’s always made sense to me.
“In fact, I suspect that’s probably most of the reason the older brothers and sisters, who’d evolved into hippies, liberals, and Democrats, sprung loose of this mortal coil way too soon; their anxiety, guilt, melancholy, and depression was all too much to bear, and so they were always pharmaceuticalizing themselves, bloating their bodies, fossilizing their cerebral cells.
“Like a fish that rejects the water that keeps it alive, as hippies they’d rejected all the values that had sustained our forebears for generations, including God and religion, for millenia.
“In doing so, they’d rejected themselves, tossed themselves into the garbage.
“Anyway.
“So one’s supposed to try to be good, and while one can’t control one’s feelings, one can control one’s conduct.
“However.
“Nobody’s perfect, and God knows that better than anybody else.
“One can’t be fully controlled, fully restrained, all the time.
“Some steam’s got to be let out.
“As a man, there’s hardly anything I want to do more in life, than to poke a woman.
“If there was no such thing as morality, I’d be poking a woman 24/7/365, and that still wouldn’t give me all I wanted of it.
“All males are that way, not just me.
“One’s supposed to trust God to be compassionate and merciful, and I do.â€
to be continued
-
I went to town for supper alone, as the femme’s gone, running into the neighbor and the neighbor’s older brother at the bar. Their wives and kids were in the big city this evening, and so they had to fend for supper on their own, too.
“When the cat’s away the mouse’ll play,†Swede, the cook of Norwegian derivation whose specialty is Italianate cuisine, sang out in falsetto as he faux-danced to the table to take our order.
I glared at him.
Tomorrow, Thursday, is the birthday of the neighbor’s twin daughters; they’ll be thirteen, and there’s going to be a gala cookout at my place in the evening.
“Anything exciting happen today?†the neighbor’s older brother asked me.
No, I said; “in the morning, I got e-mails from Tucson and Joplin; Crystal, Annette, and Amber want to come up here for Big Mo’s meet-up of primitive women who hate men, at least at the moment.
“I had to send regrets, because Crystal and Annette aren’t bona fide primitives, but suggested the three of them might consider coming up here for Labor Day.
“And then about noon, I had three visitors, and we did some stuff.
“In late afternoon, I went about on business with the business partner.
“That was it; a pretty humdrum dull day. Maybe tomorrow something exciting’ll happen.â€
to be continued
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I'm jealous. You live in the middle of nowhere and have a more active social life than I do.
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“These men-hating primitives coming here to camp during the county fair,†the neighbor’s older brother asked, “are they going to be hippies too?â€
Oh God, I hope not, I said.
“I don’t want to deal with that again, from a few years ago, when hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer & clan came up here to camp on Labor Day.â€
…..But at the same time Wild Bill was looking longingly in the distance, on the other side, three boys came floating down the river on a makeshift raft. Mrs. Alfred Packer thought they were all perhaps about 10 years old, and looked rather Tom-Sawyerish, rather cute.
They hollered something towards the hippycamp, getting Wild Bill’s attention, compelling him to shuffle down to the banks of the river to hear them.
“ARE YOU HIPPIES?†they hollered.
hippyhubby flashed the “thumbs-up†sign at them.
“REAL HIPPIES?†they shouted.
Wild Bill grinned.
“HIPPIES LIKE THERE USED TO BE?†they asked.
Wild Bill, standing on the shore, flashed the “thumbs-up†sign at them again.
“EW, ICK,†one of them screamed, “REAL HIPPIES, DIRTY HIPPIES, LAZY HIPPIES, SMELLY HIPPIES.â€
Wild Bill, upset, ran out into the water towards them, but the boys poled the raft further near the center of the running water, out of his reach. He threw rocks at the boys as they drifted away, hearing them scream, “ICK, HIPPIES, DIRTY HIPPIES! LET’S GET AWAY FROM THEM! EW!â€
As the raft floated around the bend, the hippycamp could still hear, “HIPPIES! HIPPIES!â€
Well, Mrs. Alfred Packer didn’t think much of the welcome, but these were fundiebrats, after all, she reminded herself, as she tediously rubbed Wild Bill’s dirty shirt against the wooden washboard.
Wild Bill’s ma was darning socks, grasswire was churning butter, Warpy was chopping wood, and Ms. Ed was playing with one of Wild Bill’s brothers behind a tree. All the other hippymenfolk, including Wild Bill, lazily slumbered on the ground.
- - - - - - - - - -
About an hour later, everyone heard the roar of a motor vehicle, and looked up. There was a pick-up truck coming their way, bouncing and tumbling down the ravine and gently sliding down the drop-offs.
hippyhubby cursed. More campers, he bet, and here, they’d hoped for solitude.
The pick-up truck, with three cowboys in the cab, pulled up near the hippycamp and drove slowly by, three grinning faces staring out at the hippyassembly.
After seeing the sight, the cowboys rode on down the river, towards a county road three miles away.
Mrs. Alfred Packer wondered what that was all about.
But she didn’t have much time to wonder, because soon thereafter there appeared a Buick sedan jostling along the the trail, with two old folks in it. They too pulled up near the hippycamp, drove slowly by, staring at the hippycrowd, and then continuing on down the path.
And close behind them was yet another pick-up truck, a farmer and his wife who slowed down near them, gaped and commented to each other inside the truck, and went on their way.
It appeared to be a procession, all sorts of motor vehicles coming down near the hippycamp, the occupants staring, and then going on. Some vehicles, especially those with small children in them, slowed down enough so that cameras could be taken out and pictures snapped.
hippyhubby Wild Bill ran around like a squawking wet hen, shaking his fist.
The last straw was when a pick-up truck with the logo of a television station from faraway Sioux City came down, and circled the hippycamp several times, a man standing in the bed of the truck, where a television camera had been bolted to the floor, rolling film for the noon news. The truck circled and circled, as the camera picked up the faces and expressions of each of the camphippys.
Wild Bill storming and raging, said words that couldn’t be quoted on television.
Then more cars, more trucks, more vans, bounced by, creating a soaring cloud of dust that floated way over to the house here.
- - - - - - - - - - -
About noon, the county sheriff came down there.
Seeing they weren’t from the area, he welcomed them, asking how they were doing.
Wild Bill complained about the parade that was passing by.
“That’s what brought me here,†the sheriff said; “to be sure everything was okay.
“You see, there’s three boys up on the highway with a big sign, SEE THE HIPPYS $1 ADMISION, and I wanted to check.â€
He handed Wild Bill a piece of colored paper, a photocopied job in a child’s handwriting, SEE THE HIPPYS -- $1 ADMISION PER PERSON – RULLES – DONT FEED THE HIPPYS – DONT TOUCH THE HIPPYS – DONT TALK TO THE HIPPYS – JUST LOOK AT THE HIPPYS -- $1 ADMISION.
hippyhubby got hot under the collar about that, his grey ponytail bristling.
“Well,†the sheriff said, “I can’t do anything about it, because nobody’s breaking any laws. It’s not against the law for people to look at things, and since you have the owner’s permission it’s not against the law for you to be here.
"And as for the kids, there’s no law against charging admission to a freak show.â€
Turning to leave, he saw the hippywomen—Mrs. Alfred Packer, Wild Bill’s ma, Wild Bill’s sister, Warpy, grasswire, and Ms. Ed—sitting in a row at the table, and tipped his hat to them.
“Good day, ladies.â€
Then turning to Wild Bill, he said, “But keep it clean, G-rated. This is a family area; don’t have any naked hippie women running around doing all this ‘free love stuff.’â€â€¦..
“Well,†I said, “some of these men-hating she-women might be hippies, but I’m on bended knee praying not.â€
to be continued
-
“So…..how’d it end up?†I finally asked.
“I told her she didn’t have to contact you,†he said, at which I heaved a sigh of relief.
“I told her I could tell her myself, where Romeo lives.â€
My hair stood on end.
“But really, I gave her dutch508’s address.
“’I don’t have his telephone number on me, but it’s okay to just pop in on him--make it a surprise. And don’t worry about the timing, because any time’s a good time for him,’ I also told her.â€
He could have at least told her to take a peach cobbler with her.
-
With only ten days to go, before Big Mo and the anti-men girls show up here, I reviewed what’d been done, and what still needed done, for their ease and comfort while camping here.
Obviously, something still needed done so as to keep Big Mo’s chickens corralled, so they wouldn’t plop out their stuff all over the place, releasing parasitical hookworms on which bare feet’d trod; I recalled the unhappy, sad, melancholy fate of dear old sweet Lu, too tired to post in the cooking and baking forum.
And there was the matter of some sort of “warning system,†so that Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, and the cbayer primitive could warn me that the carnies had discovered all these women, and were invading.
But then I thought of something else. What about my safety, my protection?
In a match with primitive women who temporarily hate men, well, it’d be no match.
Despite that I’m male, and ostensibly look strong and healthy--please notice the “ostensiblyâ€--because of deterioration of the infrastructure, Big Mo herself could flatten me into a red spot in the ground with just one swipe.
Given her great age, CaliforniaPeggy might take two or three swipes, but she could do it without breaking out in a sweat.
Even the wimps of the group, Skippy and Wills, could mincemeat me.
- - - - - - - - - -
Illusions have been responsible for my survival in a rough-and-tumble world; it’s a pain to have to radiate illusions, but alas for some of us it’s necessary, such as my disguisement of my deafness. If people with malicious intent were aware of it, and that I was only bluffing my way through things, I would’ve been sprung loose of this mortal coil long ago.
As for appearances, unlike my older siblings who’d been born and partly raised in New York City, I, who’d been born and raised in Nebraska, had grown up tall, straight, and imposing (as had my younger brother), probably due to that I’d grown up in a culture dominated by those of Danish derivation and their preference for diets heavy in dairy, eggs, and poultry, rather than junk food people in blue states dine upon.
But appearances could be deceiving; alone against any one of them, I’d be a goner.
- - - - - - - - - -
And deafness complicates the frailty; communication with me demands a closeness, an intimacy, which isn’t needed for hearing people talking back-and-forth. I shudder when I think of all the people who’ve touched me, even though I’d rather they not.
But it couldn’t be helped.
I fully intended to keep my distance from Big Mo’s girls--not least because they weren’t going to like me anyway--my only concern being for their protection against the rapacious carnies.
However, I thought as I broke out into a cold sweat, women like to “talk,†and any man who looks as if he’s willing to listen, even if he’s not, might as well abandon all hope; he’s doomed.
to be continued
-
“You know, women get all the breaks when it comes to sex,†I said to the property caretaker.
He was in sort of a hurry because he’s got to go home to get something to bring for the birthday cook-out this evening, “a big surprise.†It’s the neighbor’s twin daughters’ 13th birthday, and the festivities are taking place here.
This place is more amenable for big gatherings, in addition to that it’s easy to set up and clean up; and this way, everybody’s home life can continue as if nothing’s going on, nothing’s messing up the house.
“In the first place,†I said, “if she wants it, she gets it. Every time. Apparently we men never have headaches.
“But if he wants it, he might not get it.
“However, the greater inequality is that he’s supposed consider her ‘special needs,’ to be played with for a while before getting on with the job, and so it can last for hours.
“But she never has to consider his ‘special needs,’ to simply poke her for two, three, minutes, and then turn over and go to sleep.
“Talk about female privilege.â€
to be continued
-
The birthday party for the twin 13-year-old daughters of the neighbor and the neighbor’s wife got off to a good start, but then had to conclude in a hurry when unanticipated rain came.
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There was however time enough to enjoy the food and socially chitchat, myself mostly with the parents of the neighbor and the neighbor’s older brother.
The girls got plenty of presents--but no two alike--including from myself, two different kinds of Hermle mantel clocks, the sorts that one has to wind with a key and which chime.
One of the twins wants to be a ballerina, perhaps influenced by the femme (who’s currently in Chicago), and the other wants to be a lady veterinarian.
The neighbor and the neighbor’s wife have five children; these 13-year-old twins, an 11-year-old boy, a five-year-old boy, and a two-year-old girl.
- - - - - - - - - -
I don’t know the elderly parents all that well, but as usual they seemed to know a lot about me.
It’s always discombobulated me, dealing with people who know more about me, than I about them.
They of course knew all about--who doesn’t--Big Mo’s party coming to camp here the week of the county fair, and that it’s because they’re all temporarily pissed off at their menfolk and want to sit around a campfire somewhere with each other to bitch and whine.
“You’re truly a nice guy to put up with these sorts of people,†the neighbor’s mother said; “I imagine at times it gets very trying, and you get scant thanks for all you do.â€
“But why do you do it?†the neighbor’s father asked.
I gave my pat answer; “it’s a public service.â€
No, no, the neighbor’s father insisted; “there has to be more than that, to it. You put too much time and energy in trying to please them, and for all the thanks they give you, well, you probably would’ve been better off just having the carnies here.
“Carnies work for a living, and they’re grateful for anything, no matter how small, that’s given them.
“As compared with the hippies, malcontents, and freeloaders you allow out here.
“There’s got to be more than that, to it.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
I wasn’t going to get away with lying, especially to ancients, and so I told the truth.
“I live out here in the middle of nowhere.
“I’m deaf; normal means of entertainment and amusement don’t work for me--television, radio, music, movies, chitchatting with people; they’re all pretty much useless to me.
“However.
“Being a human being, I have a ‘right’ to be illuminated and diverted in light and pleasant things.
“Yes, yes, having primitives here is a chore, a burden, a pain, but at the same time it’s amusing to me, watching how they act with each other, how they act with me, how they act with others from Big Red fundieland.
“I guarantee you, it’s better than any half-hour situation comedy on television.
“Remember, I have a pretty boring life.
“Is it worth it, all the time and trouble? I dunno, but as far as I’ve ever figured out, it’s the best amelioration of boredom I’ve ever devised.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
Because of the approaching storm, events had to be curtailed, but not before the wife of the property caretaker drove up into the front yard, urging everyone to go down to the river-side for a surprise.
Since it’s quite a distance from the house to down there, most rode in vehicles, driving across the meadow.
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Once down there though, there didn’t seem as if anything was going to happen. The crowd milled around admiring the miniature Swiss Alpine chalet surrounded by flowers at its base, and with the Clivens-Moltrum inside, along the water-wheel that, as it spins, plays Ach, du lieber Augustin, Augustin, Augustin…..and the miniature Dutch windmill, surrounded by tulips at its base, and with a water-pump inside, along with giant blades that, as they turn, play Frere Jacques, frere Jacques, dormez-vous, dormez-vous…...
Then suddenly came around the bend of the river a miniature house-boat, ruddered towards the shore by the property caretaker, where a post and crank awaited to be lassoed from the boat, and the boat towed in.
It was doing some other stuff, this miniature house-boat, but as I can’t hear, I had no idea.
The caretaker leaped ashore, and explained the boat. It was several pieces of 4’x8’ one-inch-thick plywood sheets covered with astroturf secured to pontoons, all around which ran…..chicken-wire fencing.
The “house†part of the boat had a second level, around which ran more fencing.
“Built from scrap,†he proudly said, “and when Big Mo’s done with it, I’ll take it to use at my hunting cabin…..after the plywood’s replaced.
“There’s plenty of room on it,†the caretaker said, “and it’ll keep Big Mo’s chickens from splattering in places where bare feet might go, so nobody gets hookworms, like dear old sweet Lu in the cooking and baking forum did.
“Now,†he went on, talking to me specifically, “you can’t hear it, but there’s a music box that blares out Old MacDonald had a farm….. when it’s time for Big Mo to feed them.
“Big Mo’s chickens are gonna love it.â€
to be continued
-
“That was a stroke of genius,†I told the property caretaker the next morning, “having the chickens stay on a boat while Big Mo’s here--and such a big, commodious boat, with plenty of room for them to pick-and-peck around.
“And they won’t be splatting hookworms all over the ground, to be stepped on by bare feet.â€
The caretaker smiled.
“But we still got one problem--actually, now two problems--unresolved yet, and we’ve got only eight days.
“We have to have some sort of way for Big Mo or any of the others to let me know there’s trouble down there, because oh God, if something happens to them, the primitives on Skins’s island’ll never let me forget it--they still haven’t forgiven me for the late red round one, even though I had nothing to do with it.
“And then earlier today it occurred to me that I need some way of knowing if Big Mo or any of the others are coming up to the house, so I won’t be surprised.â€
“Why don’t you just lock your doors?†the caretaker asked. “That way, they’d have to knock, and you’d know you got visitors.â€
“That’s the problem,†I said; “I wouldn’t hear them knock.
“And besides, I lost the keys to the doors here eight years ago, and it’s never been worth my while to get new ones.
“And don’t bother suggesting some sort of light that goes on when someone’s at the door.
“I swear, hearing people have no idea, no idea at all, what deafness means; it means a whole lot more than just a lack of hearing. It means a whole lot of omitted perceptions from the other senses, too.
“Hitting us over the head with a big stick is truly the only foolproof, guaranteed-to-work way of getting our attention.â€
- - - - - - - - -
The caretaker of course knew exactly what I was worried about; one of the men-hating primitives is likely to come up to the house while I’m sleeping, getting a rude surprise and being the way they are, totally misinterpret what’s going on, and my motives.
And as God and everybody else knows, franksolich already has a public-relations problem with the primitives.
“You know, I can’t do anything about it,†I said; “when BainsBane was here, out of consideration for her sensibilities, when sleeping I wore long underwear, and over that, a union suit, so there’d be no male skin showing, to offend her.
“It was like trying to sleep in a suit of concrete; I won‘t bother doing that any more.
“I don’t care what the primitives see--although I’d prefer not to offend Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, and the cbayer primitive--but I care very much that if what they see incites some sort of salacious interest in them, when they get back to Skins’s island, they’ll yak all about it, much to the denigration of my character and repute.â€
to be continued
-
That out of the way, the caretaker asked me if I’d heard from any other men-hating primitives wanting to come for Big Mo’s big get-together.
No, I said; I hadn’t been to the post office to pick up any mail, but I’d get around to it on Saturday.
“I’m guessing there’s probably going to be six or eight more.â€
“Who do you have coming so far?†he asked.
“Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, the cbayer primitive, the NJCher primitive, the great aunt from Chicago, Skippy, LynneSin, the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive, the raccoon-bitten Aerows primitive, the husband-hating elleng primitive, and Wills the William769 primitive, thus far.
“You got any requests?â€
One, the caretaker said, checking his cellular telephone.
“It’s the In_the_Wind primitive, from some senior citizens’ village in urban New York.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
The windy primitive was once the “psychic†JoanAlpern primitive, and she gave me much grief during the Scamdal eight years ago.
But what I could never figure out was this: the not-yet-late red round one was visiting her, and alleged to need some cash, $300 to be exact. I dunno what for; maybe drugs or something. Since the not-yet-late red round one was from Seattle, he’d have trouble cashing a check in New York City.
So he wrote her a check for $300, and she gave him $300 in cash.
The check bounced, much to her disappointment; she whined about it on Skins’s island.
Well, if she was a psychic, how come she didn’t know in advance the check was no good?
But the bigger consternation is, she loved, and still loves, the late red round one, as if he’d done her no injury at all. And at the same time, she loathes and detests franksolich, who never cost her a cent.
“Negative,†I said; “tell her no, she can’t come, I don‘t want her around this place.â€
to be continued
-
By now, I'm hoping--but I'm not quite sure--readers are getting my drift.
The descriptions of, and comments about, women might appear to be general in nature; that all women are these ways.
No; decent and civilized women, and Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, and the cbayer primitive are exempt from my generalities, my broad-brushing.
This story, in describing how men really feel, is blatantly meant to upset and offend the dedicatee, and her fellowette women's-libbers on Skins's island.
The screeching she-women'll insist they're not reading this, but they are, and I fail to understand why they'd be embarrassed about admitting it.
-
About an hour after I went to bed for the night, I was awakened by the harsh glare of the ceiling light that’d suddenly been snapped on.
“We’re here for some more fun. Let the party begin…..â€
I groaned as I got up; Romeo again, drunk, this time with two red-headed women he‘d gotten from only God knows where, one tall, one short, one with big ones, one with regular-sized ones, both thin.
No need to cover myself, as this wasn’t respectable company that might be offended.
“Oh my,†said the short red-head with the big ones; “isn’t he so nice, and so clean?â€
“I like clean men,†purred the tall red-head with the regular-sized ones.
“What’s up?†I asked, to get some sort of conversation going.
“We came to party,†Romeo said; “let’s go out on the back porch, toke a few, have some fun.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
We filed out of the bedroom, through the kitchen, and out to the back porch. It of course was dark, but it being mid-summer, warm. I turned on one porch light, which illuminated slightly; if I turned them all on, we‘d be plagued by flying insects.
Romeo lit up a joint, offering me as host the first puff, but I demurred, instead taking out a regular cigarette and lighting that. I was encouraged that as they smoked, they began disrobing, because one’s uncomfortable being the only naked person in a group.
After a couple of joints, Romeo suggested something to drink would be nice.
I’ll go out to the garage and get some beer, I said. I don’t drink, but there’s three ancient refrigerators there, where the neighbor and his older brother, the property caretaker, and the ranch-hands who work across the road keep a stock of liquid refreshments.
The short red-head with the big ones followed me. She’d taken off her top and her shoes, but still had on a pair of really tight cut-offs.
She unexpectedly fondled me down on the lower back when I leaned over to pull out a twelve-pack, causing me to straighten up with a start.
“That’s a nice ass,†she said; “do gay men ever come on to you?â€
I looked at her with the glazed stare of a man who’s just been shot in the stomach.
“Well, I’ll bet if you showed it off, they’d come on to you.â€
I broke out in a cold sweat, visibly.
“Oh, don’t be thinking of that at all,†she said. “But don’t be such a prude either.â€
To assure myself though, I unbuttoned her cut-offs and pulled them down, which she allowed me to do without resistance. There was nothing there but the usual-and-standard female anatomy, so I breathed more easily and yanked them back up, although they were so tight on her I fumbled with re-buttoning them.
Compressed against each other, we sucked face for a bit, until she grabbed one of her big ones, wiggle-waggling it at me, wordlessly suggesting I “do something†with it.
“Let’s go join the others,†I said. “They’re impatient for the beer.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
“This guy doesn’t like them†she announced when we reached the back porch. “Is something wrong with him?â€
Romeo was on a chair, the tall red-head with the regular-sized ones on his lap, and reluctantly pushed her away.
“Well, okay then, let’s trade,†he said, standing up.
The three of them had a whispered discussion, glancing my way as they smoked another joint.
“Well, maybe he’s queer,†said the short red-head. “I’ve never seen a man who didn’t like my big ones.â€
“How about if you two guys went at it, and we got to watch?†the tall red-head asked; “it’d be a real turn-on, seeing what guys do with each other.â€
My hair stood on end, especially since Romeo’s didn’t.
The tall red-head came over to stand behind me, where I was sitting on the edge of the chaise longue, and gently taking my head, placed the back of it against in between her two regularly-sized ones.
- - - - - - - - - -
The short red-head sat on the floor of the porch, idly handling a soccer ball she’d seen underneath the table. The tall red-head had pulled me back into a laying position and was hovering over me, trying to tickle my nose with her regular-sized ones.
“Let’s play a game,†the short red-head suggested.
“Girls against boys, and losers have to do what the winners want.â€
“But there’s only four of us,†I said, nervous about what she‘d want if her side won; “four people can’t play soccer.â€
“Four’s enough,†she said; “we can improvise.â€
I pointed out it was pretty dark; after all, it almost 3:00 a.m.
“Well, you could turn on all the lights, and we could play near the edge of the porch. Girls against boys, and losers have to do what the winners want.â€
“But still, it’s dark enough we won’t be able to tell each other apart,†I protested. “Usually teams have uniforms.â€
“Oh, that’s okay,†the tall red-head said; “you guys can wear our shirts and we’ll wear our cut-offs.
I looked over at Romeo, who was hunched down in a chair opposite, dreamily gazing at a half-smoked joint.
For the first time, I noticed that BainsBane had been right; this guy was big, really big.
I’m far from diminutive, but this guy was really hung.
“Maybe we could wear athletic supporters,†I suggested; “after all, he and I have, uh, certain body parts that can be easily damaged, putting us at a disadvantage.â€
“No, you guys should wear only shirts,†the tall red-head said; “after all, men are better at sports than women, and you could consider it a handicap, like in golf. It equalizes things, making them more fair.â€
I looked at Romeo again; his unspoken message was that it’d be fun to play soccer.
The tall red-head tore off her shirt and pulled it down over my head. It was pretty tight, and at its lengthiest it reached my navel. The short red-head gave her long-ago discarded shirt to Romeo, which likewise was way too short.
We played soccer and the men won, although I wonder if perhaps the women let us, given how I found myself really cautious about the soccer ball, and so didn’t play hard.
So Romeo and I got our choices, he sitting in a chair while the short red-head squatted in front of him. “Nothing special,†I informed my own partner, the tall red-head; “I just want to poke.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
We used every position possible, whichever one she wanted, just so I could poke her. So she was happy, and I was happy. As far as I was concerned, we could do it hanging from the rafters, or her standing on her head, just so I could keep poking.
But watching the other two from across the porch, I wondered if I’d made the wrong choice, seeing Romeo writhe in closed-eyed blissful ecstasy; he wiggled so much I feared he’d break the legs off the chair.
Then I figured no, it was more fun doing what I was doing.
After Romeo seemed sated, he and the short red-head toked a bit more, watching us until he finally reminded us it was late, and he had to work in a few hours.
“But wait,†I protested. “I’m not done yet. She wanted to play first, and I’ve been giving her what she wanted--â€
“Don‘t you ever pop?†the tall red-head asked me. “I kept reaching a new level, and thought you’d pop then--â€
“Just being considerate of the needs of the woman,†I said modestly, lighting a cigarette. “If I pop too soon, I deflate, and turn over and go to sleep, and it gets the woman all upset and bent out of shape, and I never hear the end of it.â€
But they had to leave, so they left. I laid down on the chaise longue and drifted to sleep.
- - - -- - - - - - -
A couple of hours later, after the sun had just come up, I was shaken awake on the shoulder by the property caretaker.
“Dude,†he said, admiringly.
to be continued
-
“I get the impression you’re not enjoying it,†Romeo said that afternoon, as he was driving us from this place to his boss’s place. Both of us needed to pick up our paychecks, and as it was a distance, there was no point in duplicating gasoline.
“You’re about what?--eleven, twelve, years older than me, but you’re in great shape when compared with most much younger. It’s in you--you could be engaging in hours’-long gymnastics with a woman twice a day during the week, and three times a day on weekends and holidays, given your stamina.â€
I arched my eyebrows. Usually as far as Romeo’s concerned, he’s the Great One, and nobody else even comes close.
“I’ve never heard of anybody who could go so long before finally popping,†he added.
“But still, I get the impression you’re not enjoying it.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
Well, the reviews on that are mixed, I thought to myself; it’s not all bad, and it does release some, uh, intense inner tensions and pressures.
My biggest problem was with Romeo himself.
Although there’s nothing unaesthetic about him--he’s the usual and standard typical wiry blond cowboy in his late 30s--and he has winning ways, nobody but me chooses to have anything to do with him.
That part was okay; being a nice guy, I’m used to being the friend of the friendless.
But what wasn’t okay was his condescension; that I was a total Innocent and naif, and need his tutelage to learn the ways of the world. Never mind that I’ve been around the block so many times the sidewalk’s been eroded into a ditch.
However, it does need pointed out that I get this treatment all the time, even from decent and civilized people; he’s hardly the only one. We all radiate impressions of ourselves on which others base their judgements of us, and in my case, I suppose it’s because I’m deaf, and have the manners of the “lost youngest brother,†a double-whammy if there ever was one.
Someone who needs both protected, and instructed.
Even the nephews treat me this way; it’s my fate to never repast at the Table of the Elders, always to sit down with the kids.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Well, you see,†I said, “actually I’m probably having a better time than what I’m letting on, but really, there’s a problem.
“You pick up the women and show up with no notice at all.
“How about letting me have some say in the women, and time to prepare for them?â€
He thought about this. “You got any ideas that would make it better?â€
Yeah, I said; “the carnies aren’t coming until Saturday August 9th, the same day Big Mo and the men-hating primitives start trickling in.
“So maybe we could do something out where the carnies’ll camp, before they get here. It’s a great spot, and isolated--nobody ever goes there.â€
“Good idea,†Romeo said; “unlike your place, where everybody seems to go. It’d be great, the privacy, and the river’s just as good there, as it is at your place.â€
Uh huh, I said. “Nobody’d have the least slightest clue.
“But there’s something else.
“You always pick the women; I have no say in who you bring, and so sometimes you pick women who don’t especially turn me on, like short ones or red-heads or those with supersized jugs.â€
“Well, we could do that,†he said; “just let me know what you want, what turns you on.â€
I itemized the details. “A little taller and thinner than most women usually are, dark brown hair, pale skin, appropriately-sized jugs, long slender fingers, slightly larger-than-average nose--I guess one would call it the ‘Hebraic look.’
“I tell you, Jewish women, or Jewish-looking women, turn me on like you wouldn’t believe.
“I dunno why it is, but probably it is because when I was a little kid, I was really enamored of children’s versions of eastern European Yiddish folk-tales; read them voraciously. There’s never been anything, to me, hotter than a Jewish woman, or at least a Jewish-looking woman.
“But alas, such a breed’s nearly non-existent in goy Nebraska…..â€
“You’re right,†Romeo said; “that’s a tall order.
“But I think I can fill it.â€
to be continued
-
Jewish? nads suddenly appears in the story....
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Jewish? nads suddenly appears in the story....
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Jewish? nads suddenly appears in the story....
Oh no, she doesn't.
-
“This is a hard one,†the property caretaker said, “figuring out some sort of warning system so that the she-primitives down there can alert you there’s a problem.
“Normally, all it takes is something that ‘beeps’ or ‘buzzes’ or blares, to tell someone their attention’s needed.
“But that won’t work for you, because you can’t hear.
“So then one wonders, ‘what about something that blinks?’--but you wouldn’t know something was blinking unless it was somewhere within your line of vision, and such things aren’t always in eye-range.
“Okay then, what about something that vibrates?--but you’d be aware it’s vibrating only if it were attached to you, and you’re not about to wear attachments, and even if you were willing to, you couldn’t wear such a thing all the time.
“Because of the situation--the peril of the carnies ransacking the she-primitives--you need something that’s 100% guaranteed to get your attention.
“But about the only thing that would work is Big Mo coming up behind you and hitting you over the head with a baseball bat. That’d be 100% guaranteed to get your attention. But it’s the only thing.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
There being no resolution to that, we discussed the flip side of the same sort of problem; my privacy and safety against intruding she-primitives.
It’s important that I be freely accessible to them, in case they need something, which of course means leaving all the doors unlocked, so they can walk inside and tap me on the shoulder or something, so as to get my attention.
Usually that’s not a problem for people, and it’s worked okay this way all my life, but that’s because decent and civilized people tend to be up-and-about during the day, when I’m of course decently presentable.
One can hope the she-primitives go to bed at ten or before, and don’t get up until six or after, but knowing the way primitives are, that might be too much for which to hope. And the last thing I need is an anti-man primitive coming in during the middle of the night…..
“You know, I’m wondering if maybe you covered the windows, that might help,†the caretaker said.
“You can’t count on the others, but at least Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, and the cbayer primitive have enough good manners and courtesy that, if they see the curtains are closed, it’s impolite to disturb.â€
When I’d first moved out here, there were roll-down shades on the windows, which I immediately took down, as shades remind me of the squalor and poverty of desperate people during my childhood.
I’d intended to pick up curtains or draperies in the big city at some time, but never got around to it.
This place is more than half windows; the old woman who’d lived here before I did--in fact, she lived here all her life--had been going blind the last twenty years of her life, but still liked light, and so was always having walls replaced with windows so as to let the Sandhills sun shine in, cheering her up.
Having uncovered windows has never been any big deal to me; this is way out in the middle of nowhere, and so there’s nobody around to peek inside the house.
“hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer did, though,†the caretaker reminded me, “getting an eyeful that one early morning.â€
“As also did Warpy and Ms. Ed the unappellated eohippus,†I added, “but at least Judy grasswire didn’t.
“I was favorably disposed towards Judy grasswire at the time, and would’ve been really embarrassed if she’d seen what they saw, a wholly unadorned franksolich.
“But hey, these are primitives here, and they’re not going to like me anyway no matter what they see of me, so it doesn’t make any difference.â€
to be continued
-
“This is a hard one,†the neighbor’s wife said.
“You want me to show the primitive ladies all around, take them places to see and do things, and that’s okay with me, but…..what?
“What sorts of things would blue-state primitive ladies like to see and do?â€
You’re a woman, I reminded her; “you know what women like to see and do.â€
“These are primitive ladies, though,†she insisted, “and I’m getting the impression at least a few of them are uppity about us, having all these silly snobbish elitist east-coast ideas about how we are, how we live, out here in the hinterlands.
“In fact, it looks to me as if Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, and the cbayer primitive are likely to be the only ones to treat us with any respect.
“And it’s complicated in that these are, temporarily, anti-men she-women; they’re coming here to get away from men.
“But just about everything women do around here involves men, too; even the city council’s got a man on it.â€
“Remember,†I assured her, “we have no idea what Big Mo’s girls expect, and it’s reasonably possible they won’t want to have anything at all to do with us, you and me, and we’d be home free.
“But if not, during the county fair, the Ladies’ Altar Society is hosting that soup-and-salad supper, along with a bake-sale, and they might go for some home-made cuisine."
to be continued
-
During the afternoon, when I was outdoors rotating the headlights on the automobile, a beat-up old truck hauling a miniature trailer home pulled into the yard.
It was Italianate Jesus, Wild Bill’s brother with both eyes on the same side of his nose, and two carnies new to me; a heavy-set older guy with stiff white hair, significantly carbuncled, and afflicted with a permanently-running nose, and a considerably tatooed middle-aged woman, sort of flabby, with overly-bright red lipstick and too-heavy mascara, who seemed to chain-smoke cigarettes even more than I do.
“Hey, man,†Italianate Jesus greeted me; “things are slow up in South Dakota, and so Louie told us we’re laid off, to skedaddle until the carnival comes here, where he’ll take us on again.
“Do you mind if we camp here until then? It’d be only eight days until we’re on the payroll again, and we’ll stay out of your way.â€
This of course messed up other, uh, plans, but as they truly needed a place to stay, myself being a nice guy, I said, “yeah, sure, cool, no problem, whatever.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
The business partner arrived as I was dusting out behind the plastic electrical-outlet plates on the walls, coming to pick up some work I’d done, and bringing with him more work.
“I got a telephone call from someone who wants to come out here to meet with Big Mo’s women,†he said.
I of course have a telephone, but because I’m deaf it’s a pain to use, and so usually I have the neighbor, the neighbor’s wife, the femme, and the business partner take my calls and return my messages.
“I told her I wasn’t sure if she’d be eligible, because while she was once a primitive in good standing, she’s not any longer. But I’d ask you first. flyarm.â€
Oh my. I brightened up. “Of course flyarm’s welcome here; a blast from the past. I remember flyarm fondly, and’d be delighted to meet her.
“flyarm had been one of those supporting poor stupid Beth during the Scamdal eight years ago, but as time went on, it became apparent she was just a trite, silly old woman being used, wholly innocent of any evil intent.
“I became enamored of her when I discovered she was one of my most-avid readers, and in fact she clumsily tried emulating my style. She didn’t do so well, but at least she tried.
“It’s difficult to dislike flyarm.
“Yeah, true, she lives in Streisandian opulence in New Jersey, with another expensive place down in Florida. Her main residence is New Jersey, but she claims Florida because taxes are lower.
“And flyarm’s loaded, loaded to the gills, and so taxes can hurt.
“What’s even more appealing about her is that she was once very poor; unlike the elitist NJCher primitive, flyarm had to work her way up in the world. She was an airline stewardess, back when airplanes still had propellers.
“She met some rich radio sports announcer, married him and his money, and’s been in clover since.
“flyarm’s all right.
“And with the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive also being here, there should be some fireworks--â€
“Who’s cali?†the business partner asked; “I’m not sure I know of her.â€
“An Obama fanatic,†I explained; “a little taller and thinner than most women usually are, dark brown hair, pale skin, appropriately-sized jugs, long slender fingers, slightly larger-than-average nose--I guess one would call it the ‘Hebraic look.’â€
- - - - - - - - - - -
A little before suppertime, Romeo came by.
“Hey, after church on Sunday, I’m headed to Omaha for a day and a half, and while I’m there, I’ll look around for a couple of women to fill your bill, and we could get some action before the carnies come.â€
I broke the bad news to him; some of the carnies were already here.
“But be of good cheer,†I said; “just find, and bring up, the right women, and I’ll figure out another place to have fun.â€
to be continued
-
“I’ve been hearing stories,†she said.
“Aren’t you worried about what [the femme] would say?â€
“I’m not worried about it,†I said; “yes, yes, yes, she’s in Chicago, 500 miles away, but that’s not why I’m not worried about it.
“[the femme] already knows exactly what’s going on; you hearing people have some sort of extraordinary perceptual abilities where you know things without having to be told them.â€
I had a visitor, the woman who as a Ph.D. student had stayed here one summer a few years ago analyzing the William Rivers Pitt for her doctorate in soil chemistry.
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/august/006_zps41ac274e.jpg) (http://s1100.photobucket.com/user/Eferrari/media/august/006_zps41ac274e.jpg.html)
“Look,†I said; “it’s general knowledge around here, but you wouldn‘t know, living way over on the other side of the state.
“You’re upset by stories you’ve heard; they bother people around here a little bit, but knowing the situation, not enough to get all worked up about it.
“[the femme]’s had a bad summer, a really rotten summer, what with the death of her father, and that she was undecided about taking a teaching job up in South Dakota. Well, she‘s decided now to take it.
“I’ve had a bad summer, an imminent tragedy that was supposed to happen, and is definitely going to happen, but hasn’t happened yet. It’s dominated my whole life, just waiting, and I wish to God it’d be over soon.
“I love her very much, and she obviously cares for me. If I had to, I’d die for her, and I‘m sure if I needed a kidney or something, she‘d give me one of hers.
“But things are rarely as they seem.
“[the femme] and I are never going to get married, and we were aware of it from the beginning, years and years ago.
“No, nothing’s wrong with either of us, and there‘s only good feelings and tender concern for each other.â€
to be continued
-
“Why, oh why, do so many people use beer and dope when having sex?†I asked.
“I’ve never done it, and so I don’t know for sure, but it seems to me artificial stimulants would dullen the senses, making it less exhilarating than it should be.
“Me, I’d just as soon do it with a clear head, to get the full joy of it.
“And you, madam, made me very joyous last night,†I said as I rubbed her on her derriere.
“I thought you’d never quit,†she said.
I got out of bed, and flexing my arms as if stretching for a new bout, demonstrated that I’d recovered, and was ready to go again.
“Oh no,†she said; “you may be up for it, but it’s late, and we need to get going.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
As she stood in front of the counter making coffee, I embraced her from the back, holding her very tightly, my appendage slipped in the cleft of her derriere, my fingers twiddling in the lower part of her front, and my lips nibbling her on her chin.
“I love you I love you I love you,†I said; “I’d like to be going in and out of you forever.â€
As she went to take some milk out of the refrigerator, I followed, still glued to her.
When we walked out to the back porch, I sat down and motioned for her to sit on my lap.
“But I don’t want it right now,†she said.
“No problem,†I replied; “you could just sit on my lap, making me feel good with the press of your body.
“Remember, madam, the greatest gift is that which gives pleasure to another person.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
We eventually got dressed and went to town to do what we had to do, including picking up the mail, which included several hand-written envelopes addressed to me, hand-writing I didn’t recognize.
But as the sun was in the right place overhead, she wished a tan and a massage, so I put the correspondence aside for later, and we stripped and went out to the back porch again. She laid down on her stomach on the chaise longue as I rubbed suntan lotion into her.
“Why oh why,†I asked, “do people need to use costumes and accoutrements when having sex?
“I don’t care for it; to me, there’s nothing more uplifting than just the sight of a woman’s naked body, nothing on it.â€
I helped her turn over on her back, and began massaging suntan lotion there, paying particular attention to, ahem, certain parts. Feeling impish, I kissed her down there, and then sent my fingers to twiddle around.
“Why oh why,†I asked, “do people need to use toys and gadgets when having sex?
“It seems to me what one has naturally attached to the body is toys and gadgets enough.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
Then we switched, with her lotioning and massaging me.
“It’s odd,†she mused; “once you told me about [the femme] last night, it seems you immediately forgot all about her.â€
Uh, no way, I said, sitting up. “I think about her all the time; [the femme]’s immortal to me.
“It’s been a real drain on both of us, and we’re both very tired. Just really tired. It’s been going on for almost a year, but nothing that one should discuss with others far removed from the scene, or on the internet. It’s one of those things I’ll be able to talk about--but not today, not tomorrow, not next week. I dunno when, but just not right now.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
“About a month ago, she suggested that while she wasn’t interested, if I wanted to, I could see other women.
“That was about the time I got to know Romeo. He’s worked for the cattleman across the road for a few years, but I’d never paid attention to him.
“He said he could help me deal with the unrelenting stress and tension I’ve been under.
“You know, Romeo’s not the best guy to have hanging around, but I figured what do I have to lose?--after all, even a broken clock’s right twice a day.
“So far we’ve had two sessions.â€
“What kind of sessions?†she asked.
Just sessions to release pent-up pressure, I said.
- - - - - - - - - -
“You’re not as thick and bushy as you used to be down here,†she commented as she rubbed my groin.
“Never mind,†I said; “it’s been growing back, although not fast enough to suit me.â€
“Oh, but you’d look good, really good, shaven--you wouldn’t be covering up so much of one of the nicest things about you,†she said as she proceeded to check the suppleness of it.
to be continued
-
Later in the afternoon, when the property caretaker was here, we sorted through the mail to consider the requests for permission to come to Big Mo’s big anti-men primitive meet-up, which starts in only a week.
The caretaker rattled off the names, and I approved or disapproved.
“msanthrope, the MsPiggy primitive--â€
“Negative; it’ll be like having a dead fish here.â€
“demtenjeep, Pamela--â€
“Negative; no reason needs given.â€
“Skidmore, the skidmarked underwear primitive--â€
“Negative; the anti-men primitive women are already bitchy as it is, and don’t need her whining too.â€
“DemGurl, the DUmbGirl primitive--â€
“Negative; LynneSin already has the allotted slot for protuberant chins.â€
“the truemud primitive‘s, trumad’s wife.â€
“Negative; she’s only married to a primitive, not a primitive herself.â€
And so on it went.
When we were done, the caretaker asked, “Okay, so who’s all coming?â€
“Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, the cbayer primitive, the NJCher primitive, the great aunt from Chicago, Skippy, LynneSin, the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive, the raccoon-bitten Aerows primitive, the husband-hating elleng primitive, Wills the William769 primitive, and flyarm.â€
“But you didn’t add anybody new,†he pointed out.
Yeah, I said, and it was on purpose.
“I’ve got to write a character sketch of each individual attendee, and it’s looking to be about as big a job as writing all the annual Top DUmmie awards. A lot of work.
“And so the less, the merrier.â€
to be continued
-
After the property caretaker left, I let out a whoop! and started tearing off my clothes.
“Let’s go down and swim in the river,†I proposed.
“But someone might come,†she said; “remember your rule about being presentable from 6 a.m. until 10 p.m., so there’s no rude surprises. And you already have those four carnies camping down-river.â€
“The rule’s only for me when I‘m here alone, madam,†I said; “it doesn’t apply other times, when there’s someone else here, with ears who can hear if someone’s coming.
“You might recall when you were here three summers ago, you and I romped and played all day long--every day for all hours for eleven blissful days--and nothing happened, there were no unpleasant surprises for us or anybody else.
“It’s because you were around here to hear, if something needed heard.
She thought about it, agreed, and started taking off her shoes.
No, I said; “leave it all on, so I can take it off.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
We ran down to the river, but because I faced less wind-resistance, I got there first.
I didn’t want to start poking right away, instead preferring simply to rub up against her while we sucked face and I slowly unclothed her.
After some minutes, I’d tossed aside her brassiere, but she still had on her panties although my hands were running around all over inside of them.
She laughed as she ran her fingers through my hair, the hair on top of my head.
“I wish I’d kept those panties as a souvenir, from the time you came charging into the kitchen and leaped up into my arms, poking away down there. You tore a hole through the panties, in your frenzied haste to get to where you were going.
“Is it me, or is it all women, or is it something else, that makes you like that?â€
“It’s you,†I said dreamily, which was the truth. My head was nested in the middle of her chest, and I turned slightly to nuzzle one of the pair.
Of course it’s her, what with her being a little taller and thinner than most women usually are, dark brown hair, pale skin, appropriately-sized jugs, long slender fingers, and slightly larger-than-average nose, an instant turn-on, a provocative trigger.
“I wish I could excite other men like that,†she said.
“Well, too bad for them,†I responded as I nuzzled my way from one of her pair up to her neck; “it makes me the luckiest guy in the world right now. I s-o-o-o-o-o want to get in you.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
But she wasn’t ready yet, and changed the subject.
“You know, one of your habits makes me really curious.
“When I was here three summers ago, for example, for eleven days about half the time I was nude.
“But you were nude all the time, excepting when other people were here. By the time I left, you’d probably forgotten what clothes were.
“Think of how you treated fizzgig, the fizzy primitive.
“You completely undressed right away, but didn’t pull of her clothes for nine hours, long after she’d become impatient, fearing you’d never go into her.â€
“Well,†I said; “the fizzy one’s a woman, and likes playing around first. Women as a general rule aren’t fond of being poked for two, three, minutes, after which their man pops and turns over to go to sleep. They gripe about it all the time, as if the needs of a man aren’t as important as their needs.
“She wanted foreplay, and so she got foreplay. I don’t see what the problem was.â€
“Also,†she resumed, “think about Warpy several years ago, when she tried to seduce you.
“You got naked right away, and after some hours of playing cat-and-mouse, she was just taking off her pants when you were all dressed again.â€
“If you knew Ms. Hindenberg,†I replied, “you’d want her to keep her clothes on, too, in addition to covering her face.
“But anyway, I dunno why it is. I imagine Sigmund Freud has the answer and I haven’t read that chapter yet.â€
to be continued
-
Man, this is hard, writing pornography for BainsBane and her cohort screeching she-women on Skins's island.
I'm trying to keep this reasonably clean, and have been resorting to a promiscuous use of euphemisms; it taxes the imagination, trying to think of "nicer" words to call something.
When writing the chapter to come, I've suddenly discovered I've invented a euphemism for a euphemism for a euphemism for a thing.....
-
“You like being naked,†she insisted; “you really like it.â€
“It’s great to be naked,†I replied, rubbing the tips of her pair; “it’s liberating, it’s exhilarating, it just feels so…..good.
“But it’s the same thing as how men want nothing more than to poke a woman 24/7/365--if we did that, nothing else would get done in the world.â€
“I hope there’s no problems when Big Mo and her crowd are here next week,†she said.
“Women are nosy; they pry.
“And if one tries to hide something, women’ll look around for it.â€
“Yeah, I am kind of concerned,†I replied; “they’re anti-men, and they aren’t going to like me no matter how nice of a guy I am. But unlike the courtesy extended to BainsBane, I’m not up to donning long underwear and a union suit again, especially since it’s forecast to be hot.
“I don’t care. This is my turf.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
I was kneeling at her feet, pulling down her panties.
“What do you feel like when you’re caught?
“Like the first time I saw you; didn’t it embarrass you to be caught like that?â€
“I don’t remember,†I said; “I’ve been embarrassed lots of times.
“It’s generally true that nobody’s around here from about ten at night until six in the morning, and so it’s generally safe; I can be as I wish, without offending anybody.
“But ‘generally’ isn’t the same thing as ‘all the time,’†I said, having finally gotten her totally disrobed and sitting back on my heels admiring all that lay before me.
“Because I can’t hear, sometimes when I’ve gotten up in the morning and everything looked okay, nobody around, but then oooops, somebody is around, and I didn’t hear them.
“The worst times are when I’ve awakened stiff, and I’m not talking about arthritis,†I said as I folded her legs and commenced to poke.
to be continued
-
The femme came in mid-morning, bringing with her a book she’d bought for me while in Chicago, a biography of the late Clare Boothe Luce. I in turn gave her a coffee-table-sized book of colored plates of court fashions in Balkan Europe circa 500 years ago, which she’d wanted.
“How was the trip?†I asked.
“It was okay,†she said; “but I’d rather have been back here, getting ready to move.â€
She’s moving up into South Dakota at the end of the month, where she took a job teaching dance and theatre arts at a community college. This however wasn’t the reason for the parting of ways; she’s going to be only three hours away.
“How are you?†she asked. “Has anything changed?â€
No, I said wearily; “it’s still the same.
“I don’t know how a hospice nurse, especially someone who’s been one for years, could be so wrong.
“Nobody but God knows beforehand for a certainty the hour of death, but I think a long-time hospice nurse would at least have a vague idea when the end’s imminent.â€
It’d been early March when I was notified such was rapidly coming, and I’d braced myself.
Five months is a very long time to live in suspended animation.
One never wants someone else to die, but in this case, the mind had corroded away a long time ago, from several decades of chomping down fistfuls of pharmaceuticals as if popcorn. It’s been more than ten years now since I was last recognized by a mind slowly dissipating into the darkness.
“He doesn’t know anybody, and when awake, he ‘talks’ with his long-dead parents, and the whole assembly of his late brothers and sisters, ‘addressing’ each by name, and with uncanny accuracy connecting them with other people, places, and events, at the same time not knowing his wife or children.
“At the end of a monologue, he mentions my name last, cursing and damning me to the deepest pits of Hell.
“It’s senile dementia, nothing personal, but still, it gets unnerving.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
We went to the bar in town to eat lunch; Swede, the cook of Norwegian derivation whose specialty is Italianate cuisine, brightened when he saw me.
While the femme was distracted, turning and talking with someone behind her, he commented dryly, “I heard someone got a shopping-list from you, to get a couple of things down in Omaha.â€
I glared at him, and ordered.
to be continued
-
Thank you Frank for rating this [ R] , gave me a chance to prepare myself for all the memories of the past to come flooding back. :bawl:
No drugs, just a beer or two, darn that was an innocent time. Come to think of it is difficult to say I have wasted my life and never taken a walk on the wild side.
Your story is going very well, not too porno but enough to make me look back and think of others I once knew or married, straight laced and nothing wild or memorable about our sex lives. No imaginations on the males, just a hit and run.
One thing has made me question, why is it men do not want to have sex when in the water, a pool or a lake, never understood that.
-
Thank you Frank for rating this [R], gave me a chance to prepare myself for all the memories of the past to come flooding back. :bawl:
As you know, vesta, dear, there's been lots of primitives reading this story.
Which tells me that Skins isn't paying attention to his "customers."
The primitives so badly want to read about sex, yet discussion of the topic doesn't happen on Skins's island--and so they're compelled to come over here to read about sex.
It's okay that they come over to read this, no problem, but why is franksolich, rather than Skins, catering to primitive needs and wants? And I'll bet Skins could churn out a better "product" too.
No imaginations on the males, just a hit and run.
A man can't help being a man, and despite the Lysenko-like hopes of the women's-libbers, men aren't going to stop being men. Genetics is stronger than "social engineering;" despite that the screeching she-women think we can be changed through "education" and "conditioning," it ain't gonna happen. Genetics is stronger than "social engineering."
Too bad for the women's-libbers on Skins's island.
-
The neighbor’s wife, sensing some impending event although she wouldn’t admit it, came to visit Sunday evening. It’d been a hot, muggy, miserable day, and I wasn’t up to chitchattery, but as she’s who she is, we sat on the front porch, away from the sinking sun of the west.
She inquired about the femme, although that wasn’t any impending event.
“You know,†I said, “it would’ve worked out for life, if nine years ago, we would’ve just remained what we were, friends.
“But both of us were facing certain, uh, pressures at the time, and encouraged an impression that seemed to alleviate those pressures.â€
I lit a cigarette, and smoked it all the way through before continuing.
“This is a place that values marriage, as it should. Marriage is important for the stability of a people, of a society. And very fortunately, it’s not unpopular.
“[the femme], being in her early 30s at the time, was feeling pressure from her family and friends, because she wasn’t showing any inclination towards that popular institution.
“She has four brothers older than her, three brothers younger than her, and at the end, a sister, as you know. They by this time were all married, again as you know.
“And so the usual-and-standard ‘what’s wrong with you’ hints.
“Myself, I’d been here four years by then [i.e., the time the femme and I met], and there were always comments--uttered outside of my ‘hearing,’ of course--like ‘he’s a nice guy, one of the nicest guys one can ever hope to meet, and he’s a decent and civilized person, not a primitive--but given his age, why wasn’t he married a long time ago?’
“And the inevitable whispered question: ‘might he be gay?’
“One thing I’ve learned is that [the femme] and I are highly susceptible to social pressures; we want to please.
“It’s a fine and noble thing to please others, a decent and civilized virtue, but one really needs to keep it in equilibrium; it’s equally important to please oneself. Without going overboard and becoming selfish, of course.
“[the femme] a very long time ago told me why she wasn’t the marrying type, the ’why’ of it being nobody else’s business. I don’t want rumors about her, as the real reason has nothing to do with her being dysfunctional or ‘different’ in any way, as she’s not.
“Myself, I guess I proved my machissimo a long time ago now, being s-o-o-o-o-o-o widely known as ’the guy who stared down a loaded gun…..twice.’ I’m known as far away as Sioux City for that. That’s not quite what happened, but hey, who am I to disagree with perceptions that enhance my reputation?
“So in either case, I think both of us proved we’re not less than straight, she a woman and I a man.
“But that’s the way it is now; before then, we felt all this intense pressure, and so staged the impression we were an ’item.’
I snuffed out another cigarette, ruefully smiling. "Remember, madam; she teaches the dramatic arts and I'm a great actor--it just seemed a natural thing to do.
“The past year or so, our situation aroused a new question, ’Well, what’s wrong with them? They’ve been together for so long, and haven’t tied the knot yet. Might there be something funny going on here?’
“At the same time, the usual-and-standard ’bad things’ that happen to people as they grow older--loss--began accelerating. She had hers, I’m still dealing with mine.
“We both being very tired, drained, simply decided to close down the show.
“It‘s a bitch, when one tries to please people too much, going overboard.â€
to be continued
-
Romeo came from the pasture across the road, where he’d been repairing a fence, as darkness began falling, having gotten back from Omaha earlier than he‘d expected.
“I got good news, I got what you wanted,†he said, “but let me grab a beer first.â€
Which he did, and we sat on the front porch as he described his acquisition.
“I got us two girls, one 27, the other 29, down in Omaha, and they’re the Hebraic sort that turns you on, a little taller and thinner than most women usually are, dark brown hair, pale skin, appropriately-sized jugs, long slender fingers, slightly larger-than-average nose.
“One might be Italianate, but they both looked Jewish to me.â€
This surprised me not at all; I never doubted he could do it, he’s so good.
- - - - - - - - - -
“The problem is, they can’t come up until Friday.â€
I winced. “That’s cutting it close; Big Mo and her men-hating girls, and the carnies, are getting here Saturday. There’s always a possibility some of them might arrive early.
“That’s cutting it real close.â€
“But they both work,†Romeo told me; “one’s a receptionist in a dental office, the other’s some sort of ‘organizer,’ in politics. They both work 8-5 Monday-Friday, and so can’t get here before Friday evening.
“But they’re ready and roaring for some action, as girly city men aren’t any good.
“Did you figure out yet, a place for us to party, given that some carnies are already at the first place?â€
No, I said; “as you know, I had company, and forgot all about it.
“We still have time to figure out where to go, though,†I assured him.
Then I thought of something else.
“It’s been twenty-four hours since the last time, and my men’s needs are recrudescing again.
“I could maybe hold out for another twenty-four hours, but I feel the need to poke.
“Any chance you can find me someone for tomorrow night? I’m not fussy, just so long as she’s not over 120 pounds and under 5‘8“, and doesn’t have tattoos.
“I’m really aching.â€
“I can,†Romeo assured me; “and I’ll get two of them, and we’ll party over at my place, where nobody‘ll come.â€
to be continued
-
“I did their income taxes once, I dunno, maybe fifteen years ago, and was stunned when I saw that their monthly payments for pharmaceuticals was more than their monthly home mortgage payment.
“That was money they paid, not the insurance company.
“It seemed odd, given that both were desk-sitting governmental employees, meaning they had top-of-the-line health insurance, which I was sure should be covering drugs. I never did see the actual policy, though, but other observations led me to believe that yeah, their out-of-pocket drug bills were really that high; more than their home mortgage payments.â€
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/august/10-147_zps34907481.jpg) (http://s1100.photobucket.com/user/Eferrari/media/august/10-147_zps34907481.jpg.html)
The business partner and I were driving out into the hinterlands on business.
“Because we’d never been close, I visited only rarely, but enough so that I saw them spending a large part of every Sunday afternoon in the kitchen with those transparent plastic boxes with dividers in them--like fishing-tackle boxes--and a couple of plastic garbage bags with bottles of pills in them.
“They were assorting their medications for the week. There was one large box and one medium-sized box for him, and one large box for her. One time I counted, and he was taking sixty-seven pharmaceuticals every day, and she, forty-two.
“All of them prescription drugs, all of them prescribed by medical professionals.
“One can’t blame the physicians, who really don’t care to prescribe drugs; they’d just as soon patients change their life-styles to deal with most things. But physicians know what a patient will, and will not, do, and try to instruct the patient on what the patient’s most likely to do.
“And they weren’t going to change any of their life-styles, drug were easier.
- - - - - - - - -
“They got their drugs from a pharmacy in a large retail store, and by mail, from Chicago.
“I happened to go with her a few times to pick up prescriptions at the store; I dunno why, but we’d be there two and a half, three, hours, waiting for the prescriptions to be filled; I don’t think it had anything to do with the quantity of the order, but just lousy ’customer service.’
“A great big huge store with about four employees working in it.
“The prescriptions that arrived by mail caused anxiety; would they get them in time, before their current inventory ran out? And sometimes there were some pretty large shipping bills, for 'expedited' overnight service, as it was the last minute.
“Isn’t there a point where a person would ask, ‘hey, I’m putting a lot of money and time and trouble into this--what am I doing, that I have to deal with all this?’â€
- - - - - - - - -
The business partner let me ramble on for much further; after all, he’s subjected me to hours’-long monologues about his own woes, which years ago included a messy divorce from his wife. She’d cuckolded him, but for some reason--women’s-libber “logic,†one supposes--felt entitled to half of his property, which of course she never got.
It’s been years, but it still burns, and so he still talks about it.
- - - - - - - - -
After a while, we shifted subjects, the business partner asking me what I was doing tonight.
I told him I was attending another “stress-relieving session.â€
“What kind of session? Where?â€
“Oh, just a session to dissipate some negative energy, some stress and tension.â€
“I’m wondering how this all came about,†he commented. “It was, like, really sudden.
“You’ve known your friend Romeo for years; he’s been over to your place constantly after work, for a few beers, but you never paid attention to him until, oh, about a month ago. And now you’re hanging with him all the time.â€
“During idle cursory chitchat with him one day, I let out that I was overburdened with stress and tension, wearing down, wearing out,†I explained.
“Concerned, he suggested he could help me with that.
“Now,†I continued, “you and I both know Romeo’s reputation, and that he’s hardly the best person from whom to seek advice and counsel.
“However, being an open-minded person, I’m always open to suggestions, no matter their source.
“And besides, what harm would it do?--I’m sure I’m smarter than him, and if something went awry, I could control the situation.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
“The problem with your friend Romeo,†the business partner said, “is that he was born too good-looking for his own good--and we all know that no matter what they say, women in fact are seduced by looks, not by character.
“And he’s a good talker, and women love smooth talkers, fall for them in a second.
“Which all of course gives him an inflated sense of himself.
“It’s too bad, because if life had given him a little less good looks, a little less gift of gab, he would’ve turned out okay.â€
Right, I said; “women really need to be more like men, and use some judgement in selecting their partners.â€
to be continued
-
“Coming from a medical family, they all knew better,†I said as the business partner and I were driving back.
“They all knew that drugs should be used with care and caution, and preferably not at all, if possible.
“But…..they’d been hippies during the glorious Age of Aquarius; science had all the answers.
“It was like, ‘I can do whatever I want to do, and if anything bad happens, the doctor and pills’ll take care of it.’
“’I don’t have to do anything myself, other than sit back and let medical science do all the work.’
“That, rather than the great big chasm in our ages or their hippieism and Democrat politics, was the greatest source of conflict between us, which is why, when I was 19, I generally severed all connections other than the annual Christmas card.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
As we pulled up to the house, the business partner said, “Well, nothing’s going to stop you, but be careful tonight; you may be getting into something you’ll later decide you didn’t want to.â€
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Referring to an, uh, incident of about three years ago, when I’d become a reluctant celebrity in the area, he said, “You know, people think you have balls because you stared a man in the eyes, stared him down so he panicked and ran away, who had a loaded sawed-off shotgun pointed at your chest.
“When I saw that film, I agreed the expression on your face was something like, ‘oh now, go away, don’t be silly, don’t bother me with this nonsense,’ but now I’m thinking something else.
“You were acting the way you did only because you had no idea what a shotgun blast would do.â€
to be continued
-
About suppertime, I drove out to Romeo’s place, over on the other side of the county.
As has been the custom since the days of the Old Frontier, ranch-hands in addition to good-sized paychecks (but one shouldn’t envy them; it’s hard work and 100-hour weeks aren’t uncommon) are provided lodgings, ranging from ancient single-wide trailer-homes up to 2500-square-foot brick manses.
“Housing†is a matter of negotiation between the ranch-hand and the cattle baron.
Romeo’s place was an older modular home sitting out in the middle of nowhere.
Hmmm, I thought; if only he worked for dutch508 on the other side of the Sandhills. dutch508 is known to be a generous employer. If Romeo worked for dutch508, probably he’d live in a nine-room faux Tudor cottage with state-of-the-art appliances and three-car garage.
No one was around, and as the skies looked threatening, I went ahead and walked inside.
- - - - - - - - - -
It was obvious the interior had been significantly tampered with, walls taken down, as it was only three rooms in a space one usually puts six or seven. The kitchen, dining room, and living room were all one big open space, then there was the bathroom, and at the end the bedroom.
The “big room,†the living-room, was ceilinged with tiles of mirrors, and from there hung an oversized globe, also consisting of tiled mirrors; it was obviously one of those lighting-fixtures popular in discotheques during the 1970s.
There was a music system, but I wouldn’t know enough to figure it out. A computer with internet access. And cable television with stacks of compact-discs of dirty movies scattered around it. Large velvet “paintings†of various wildlife hung on the walls.
The bathroom, oddly, included a bidet.
The bedroom had a king-sized bed and floor-to-ceiling mirrors on the walls.
As I flicked on the lights, I noticed there was nothing such as a “normal†light, even in the bathroom; the interior was lighted wholly by color, sparkles, and glitter.
Romeo was at least a competent housekeeper, though; the whole place was reasonably neat--the definition of “neat†being the man definition, not the woman definition--the only blemish being a few dirty dishes in the kitchen sink.
I was still looking around when the door opened, and Romeo and two women walked in.
Both women were maybe about 30, one a dark blonde and the other a light blonde, and I was gratified to note that they were both appropriately-proportioned in jugs.
“Well, what do you think of my sex palace?†he proudly asked.
to be continued
-
Because it was going to be a short night--all four of us had to be at work, wherever we worked, in the morning--and because it’d been forty-eight hours since I’d last popped, dissipating stress and tension--we got right down to business.
I had the light blond, which was peculiar, given that when with blondes, I prefer dark blondes, and the four of us sat on the superlong couch. Romeo and his woman nuzzled and kissed, not yet getting undressed. The light blond began undoing my clothes, but being pretty slow about it, I stripped them off myself, after which I opened her up.
The other three were drinking beer and smoking dope, while I simply vacuumed the jugs of my partner.
When Romeo and the dark blonde began undoing each other, I suggested to the light blonde that we go into the bedroom, for more privacy.
I wasn’t sure what one does on a bed of such vast acreage; the bed here is a single-wide, usually meant for one person, but I’ve never had problems hopping around using it.
- - - - - - - - - -
While we were sucking face, she commented, “I’d like to do it.â€
I said no, I wouldn’t like to do it.
“Do you think it’s dirty?†she asked.
I said no, but I just didn’t like to do it, unless I was in a hurry.
“But Romeo likes it when we do it,†she said.
“Well, Romeo can endure it better than I can,†I said; “if we do it, I’ll pop in two minutes, and then being spent, I’m no good for a while.
“I’d just as soon poke, because doing that, I can hold it in longer.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
She reached over into the drawer of the bedside table, pulling out a handful of plastic, rubber, foam, metallic, and cloth gadgets and toys.
“No,†I said, shuddering. “We don’t know who’s used them, where they’ve been stuck.
“However, I know where these fingersâ€--raising a hand and spreading the fingers apart--â€have been, and so it’s safe.â€
I put them in her down there, twiddling, but only for a short time, as Romeo and the dark blonde came into the bedroom. Romeo had a “need†to do it with two women, and so I graciously handed mine over and sat on the bed legs crossed, smoking a cigarette, and watching the two women doing it with Romeo.
Unlike me, Romeo doesn’t pop right away when doing it, even with two women vacuuming his part.
After he was sated, Romeo and the dark blonde went back out into the living room, to do only God knows what, while I got busy poking the light blonde, which I did until about 1:00 a.m., when it was time for everybody to leave.
- - - - - - - - - -
The next morning, the property caretaker asked, “How do you do it?
“How do you do it, having sex with other people watching? Doesn’t it make you nervous, having an audience? I know my wife and I couldn’t do it, no way at all. Not in front of other people.â€
“That’s because you were born and raised over in Iowa,†I said, “with all its hang-ups.
“Romeo and I were raised in the Sandhills, where people are more glasnost about things, more open and transparent.
“Besides, it’s convenient. After we’re done, Romeo gives me a professional critique of my performance, suggesting ways and means of improving it.â€
Then I thought of something else.
“Are you going to be around here Friday?†as if I had something for him to do.
No, he said; “the wife and I are going to visit family in Iowa, going on Thursday and coming back Sunday.â€
Whoa-ho, I thought gleefully to myself.
to be continued
-
“I’m all for inhibitions, madam; the more, the better.â€
I was talking with the neighbor’s wife, when she’d dropped by here with the wife of the retired caretaker, who’s having a big garage sale next week, during the county fair.
“I think it’s a very good idea to be inhibited; inhibitions keep a society stable and civil.
“For example, it’s a good thing many of us are inhibited about stealing someone else’s money, or harming a child, or being unkind to an animal, or violating someone’s trust.
“I wish more people were inhibited like that.
“Of course, that’d mean Democrats, liberals, and primitives would become extinct.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
“There’s a time and a place for inhibitions,†I went on; “for example, I was rather discreet as a child.
“I was a parent’s worst nightmare, a defective kid with no sense of guile, easily manipulated by others and they being medical professionals, understood better than most, the perils and hazards that posed for me.
“From before I could remember, I was carefully tutored in not presenting myself as a possible target for people with deviant or depraved tastes, or worse.
“I was taught well, too; much to my astonishment, when at a meeting once with twenty-seven deaf people, I learned I was the only one in the crowd who’d never been abused or molested, not even simply ‘inappropriately touched.’
“Nobody laid hands on me unless I knew them, and wanted them to.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
“I suppose,†I went on, “I was growing up a prude, despite all the summertime skinny-dipping in the rivers with friends, and the boys’ locker rooms in high school--well, take BainsBane’s notion of what men’s locker rooms are like, multiply her clutched pearls by ten, and you know how it was, crude and coarse.
“I never felt embarrassed about my body--being from a medical family, such is impossible--other than the absence of ears--of course that’s always covered up by my hair--but assumed there was a time and place--such as when taking a bath--for being naked, and that such times and places were rare.
“That all changed when I went away to college, but never mind.â€
- - - - - - - - -
The wife of the retired property caretaker, who’d been collecting the dirty laundry for cleaning, came into the dining room, and commented, “You know, I’m not sure what to do about hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer’s white cotton drawers.
“There’s no woman around here with a 56†waistline; they must be fatter down in Oklahoma or something.â€
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Mrs. Alfred Packer’s underwear had been abandoned here during the precipitous flight of the Packer clan over Memorial Day, after hippyhubby Wild Bill had sworn he’d been infected by ‘the Jesus germ’; they’d all left in such a haste they left everything behind them, their camping gear, the prized cadaver carvers, cookware, &c., &c., &c., including two pairs of hippywife’s freshly laundered underdrawers.
As they obviously weren’t ever coming back for their stuff, I’d collected all of it and given it to the wife of the retired property caretaker, to sell during her garage sale.
“Maybe,†I suggested, “you could sell them on eBay.
“And they’d probably sell better with a catchy title, such as ‘hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer’s white cotton underdrawers.’’
to be continued
-
“After he went psychotic on me ten years ago, I ceased all contact with him; if communication were needed about something, I went through his wife instead.
“It wasn’t the first time he’d done it, and what I don’t understand is why ‘anti’-psychotic drugs actually seem to make one more psychotic.
“There’s something about me, even mere mention of my name, that sets him off something violent.
“It’s really bad; that’s why I stopped seeing him even after he became senile and weak.
“And I have no idea why. He being so much older than me, being in college by the time I entered kindergarten, we were never close. In fact, probably the only thing we had in common was that we both came from the same two bodies.
“I’m much too young to have done him any harm.â€
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The business partner and I were on our way out to the wilderness, to do some business.
“It had started with just one single drug for hypertension thirty years before, when I was still a kid.
“As time went on--remember, I’m talking decades here, so it was slow--he was having to take another drug for this thing or that thing, until he was ultimately up to 67 pills a day.
“The same had happened with his wife, starting out with one single drug for premature arthritis.
“I’m no scientist, but I’m sure that drugs, especially in several varieties, cause all sorts of chain-reactions, that become uncontrollable, zip-zapping all over the place.
“The worst appear to be mood-altering pharmaceuticals; they really mess people up.
“I’ve noticed that people who take something simple, such as insulin for diabetes, ultimately end up on a whole lot more different drugs.
“Given my family history, I’m ‘high risk’ for a plethora of afflictions and ailments, but while those things laid low everybody else, thus far it’s pleased God that I’ve never been detected with them. The afflictions and ailments I have, are wholly different from what they ever had--but to be honest, I’d sooner deal with, for example, bleeding ulcers than with diabetes.
“I suspect I never got the same things they did because by not doing drugs, those things haven’t been ’triggered.’ Genetically, they’re probably there, but latent, and I hope to God they stay that way.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
After more rambling, I talked of happier things.
“Well, only a few more days until Saturday, when Big Mo and her crowd, and the carnies, come.
“It’s going to be a great lot of fun.â€
Then I thought of something else.
“I’m going to be busy Friday night,†I said; “I hope you don’t have any plans to come out.â€
“I do,†he replied; “I’m planning on coming out to join the fun.â€
I reeled back in horror.
“Just kidding,†he said; “you know I don’t want to have anything to do with your friend Romeo.â€
I reeled again; how is it possible for hearing people to know what’s going on without being told?
“But I’ll be there on Saturday when everybody shows up and the circus gets underway.â€
to be continued
-
The wife of the retired banker came out this morning, bringing along her younger sister, who lives in Lincoln and is also an avid gardener, and the too-nosy 11-year-old grandson, who was hoping the wind would blow my hair askew, so he could see what someone without ears looks like.
They wished to collect a few small plastic trash-bags of the William Rivers Pitt, for the sister to take home and use in her garden. I directed them to the currently most-promising spot, a hole on the side where swine excrement from the time of William Howard Taft lay exposed.
“It’s too bad there’s no way you can have all of this bagged up and sold,†the wife of the retired banker said. “It’s first-class fertilizer.
“Hippies in Vermont and Oregon would go ga-ga over it, it’s so organically pure. And antique.â€
I agreed that 740 cubic tons of vintage pig droppings 1875-1950 could make some bucks if packaged and marketed as vintage manure, but it would be a lot of trouble. “I think that after the next elections, either this year or 2016, when happy days are here again, the owner of this land’s finally going to sub-divide it for construction of river-side homes, and the William Rivers Pitt’ll be leveled, used as fill-in for low spots on the ground.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
“It’s remarkable, how thick and lush the tomato plants grow on it,†the sister said.
Ostensibly they’re “heirloom†tomatoes, I told her; “nobody ever planted them here.
“In those days, again, circa 1875-1950, pigs were oftentimes fed table-scraps and unneeded garden produce, and this place had many years of bountiful gardens, which included vast surpluses of tomatoes.
“Usually the tomato seeds passed through the digestive system of the pigs intact, and so that’s the source of these tomatoes, that still regenerate themselves every year.â€
“They look good,†the sister said to the wife of the retired banker. “Are they?â€
“They’re very good,†she was told; “people come out here to pick them all the time, during season.â€
“So you never run out of tomatoes,†the sister said to me.
Uh, no, I said; “considering they originally passed through pigs, when I want tomatoes, I buy them at the grocery store in town, which are probably safer.â€
to be continued
-
Feeling guilty because I hadn’t been giving the carnies any attention, I drove through the Italianate tract next to this, to their camp-site by the river.
There’s only four carnies there right now, laid off up in South Dakota for a lack of business. As there was nothing for them to do, Louie, the owner, had sent them down here to wait for this county fair, which starts next week, and usually brings in a good gate.
Italianate Jesus is apparently one of the “supervisors,†with the other three--hippyhubby Wild Bill’s brother with both eyes on the same side of his nose, a heavy-set heavily mascara’ed tattooed woman, and an old guy with white hair standing straight up and with a perpetually running nose--just being ordinary employees.
The camp was, for now, set up with their old trailer and a couple of pup-tents.
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I wasn’t sure where they were getting their water--probably from the river, boiling it on the campfire--but did notice they had sanitary facilities; a folding camp-stool with a plastic bag hanging underneath.
There weren’t enough chairs, so I just sat cross-legged on the ground as we talked.
Italianate Jesus illuminated me that Louie had taken a hit, after the freak show quit on him near the end of the summer last year. “That freak show was a great draw, and without it, we’re just an ordinary run-of-the-mill carnival, nothing special.
“The hyper-mammaried woman pulled them in to gape and gaze, and the beach-ball with toothpicks for arms and legs did almost as well.
“Since then, all I’ve known is that Ebony, the fat white woman, and Ivory, the fat black woman, are now riding off into the sunset on the disability gravy train, getting more money than what the rest of us make working.
“They could’ve remained contributing members of society, if they’d stayed with us and worked.â€
Yeah, said the handkerchiefless carnie with the running nose, as he wiped under his nose and then licked it off. “Some people get all the breaks when it comes to government hand-outs, especially if you‘re a woman, and fat.â€
I asked how they were doing, like in the food and money departments.
“We go to [the big city] every day,†Italianate Jesus said; “to visit the food pantries and hustle up some gas money. We do okay. And Gerta hereâ€--pointing to the heavy-set heavily mascara’d tattooed woman who chain-smokes cigarettes faster than I do--â€turns a trick or two for an extra ten, twenty, bucks.â€
I looked at Gerta. “She can get ’clients’?â€
Gerta heard me, and snorted. “You’d be surprised, honey, at some of the tastes men have.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
After subtly ascertaining the carnies hadn’t been to where they’d camped last year, and discovered that site set up for Big Mo’s crowd, I was reminded of something else.
“Hey, you know you can come to me any time you want, if you need something; I’m always happy to help.
“But I’m going to be busy Friday night, so I’d appreciate it if you had all your needs and wants in before then.â€
to be continued
-
It was really hot and humid Tuesday afternoon, and I was thinking of taking a dip in the river when most conveniently, an automobile pulled up into the front yard. They were three women from the big city, one with whom I used to work, but I didn’t know the other two.
All of them about 40-45 years old, somewhat chunky, and with big ones.
They wanted to swim too, but found the pools in the big city too congested.
I said yeah, sure, fine, let’s go, and so we went, driving from the house down to the river in the open jeep they’d ridden from the big city.
They all took off their outer garb, revealing two-piece swimming suits underneath, and also big stretch-marks. But as the stretch-marks were because they’d borne infants, these gallant eyes saw none of that, only smooth, soft, uninterrupted skin.
These gallant eyes also subtracted about forty pounds from each of them, making them very aesthetic indeed, excepting for their big ones, which one, no matter how gallant, couldn’t “erase.â€
However, there wasn’t going to be any sex here, not even touching, as two of them have husbands and the third a boyfriend, any of which could beat me into a pulp if his woman were used by anybody but him.
- - - - - - - - - -
I stripped, and started walking into the water.
“Hey, wait, where’s your swimming suit?†one of them hollered at me.
Turning around, I said, “Swimming trunks are for wimps and queers. Real men don’t need trunks.â€
This was nothing they’d expected, anticipating only regular swimming.
They laughed, and walked into the water themselves. We all got good and wet, and sooner or later all four of us were laying in the sand, all three women with their tops, but not their bottoms, off, betraying what ponderous weight those things surely must be.
“You’ve got to be the most self-assured man I’ve ever seen, when naked,†one of them said.
I lit a cigarette, gazing at a distance, after which I told them why.
- - - - - - - - - -
In late afternoon, because it was still bright and hot, we decided we’d go back up to the house and grill some hamburgers for a quick, light pre-supper. They all grabbed their tops, but didn’t put them back on; I left my clothes in the sand.
I drove, because it’s an open jeep, and I hadn’t driven one of those for a long time.
But perhaps a little meanly, I wanted to jiggle their jugs a bit, to see them flap around, and instead of going across the meadow directly back to the house, I took some of the rougher parts of the terrain, over which we jostled and bounced.
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(Yes, we had seatbelts, and they were used; I won’t drive a motor vehicle without them in use.)
They “whee’ed†and squealed, and their jugs indeed did flop around.
How big-jugged women can stand that, I have no idea.
I parked the jeep in the back yard, and went to set up the grill for cooking. The three topless women laid on towels on the ground, soaking up the sun, and rubbing lotion on each other. Nothing should be inferred from this, but I noticed they caressed each other’s jugs even better than Romeo can.
Being women, they probably know the best places on women, while men have to guess
- - - - - - - - - -
“You really should put on an apron,†one of them said to me; “you might burn yourself.â€
“Aprons are for wimps and queers,†I said; “real men don’t need aprons.â€
“Besides,†another one said, “we like to see. The whole thing.â€
Already facing them, I put crossed my hands and covered myself in faux horror.
“But you’re not hard yet; don’t we turn you on?â€
Actually, yes, they didn’t. My gallant “mind-tricks†could evaporate the stretch marks and some of the pounds, but big jugs are pretty much indelible. But I couldn’t say that, saying instead, “It’s too early yet,†without any idea of what it was “too early†for.
The women took their hamburgers before the food was fully cooked, and trooped up the steps to the table on the back porch, where they also dipped chips. I took a while, so as to ensure my own hamburger was edible, and came up a couple of minutes later.
- - - - - - - - - -
Now, the three of them had promised to be “ears†for me, to let me know if they heard someone coming, but they all had fallen down on the job, because at that same moment, out of the door from the kitchen came the property caretaker.
“Dude,†he said.
to be continued
-
“I wouldn’t worry about it,†the neighbor said when he was here in mid-evening; “he’s used to you.
“It’s not anything he wants to get involved with, but you awe him, impress him.
“And besides, [the retired property caretaker] was catching you unawares all the time.â€
There’s a difference, I insisted; “He was almost old enough to be my father, and given who he was, there wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before anyway. So it was no big deal.
“But [the current property caretaker]’s younger and I want him to think well of me, as a paragon of rectitude and propriety.
“You know, when BainsBane was here, I thought he might be a decadent bacchanalian, the way he stared at her jugs, and kept staring at them for the longest time.
“But it must’ve been just a temporary aberration, because when he took her ‘for a ride’ out into the country, while I assumed there was going to be some poking going on--and him a married man--nothing of that sort happened; he picked up your kids too, and took everybody out for a ride in the country.
“And alas for BainsBane, who had to wait until Romeo came along to woo her.â€
“I wouldn’t worry about it,†the neighbor repeated; “he's awed by your brazen audacity, how you get away with so many things being so unlike anybody else around here.â€
to be continued
-
“You’re pretty retarded,†the business partner said to me.
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We were on our way to do some business in the bottom of the Sandhills, and he was driving.
Since I’m deaf, we have to use a “system†when it comes to driving, talking, and listening. He can do all three at once; I can only drive and talk, or ride and “listen,†because I have to look at the person talking, instead of at the road.
When I need to “listen,†he drives.
- - - - - - - - - -
“I used to think a lot of stuff about you was uniquely you, your perceptions, attitudes, and conduct.
“But then a couple of years ago, my sister-in-law gave me an article, saying ‘that sounds like franksolich.’
“It turned out it’s not just you; it’s pretty much generally all deaf people, this ‘social retardation.’
“According to this article, it apparently happens because of the isolation and apartness; one doesn’t have the same experiences, or has them much later than hearing people, that encourage social maturity to evolve.â€
Yeah, I said; “And it doesn‘t wound me to admit that I can be pretty juvenile at times; nobody‘s perfect.
“You have no idea how miserable that’s always made me,†I went on. “For example, chronologically, [the neighbor’s older brother] and I are the same age, exactly the same age. But I can’t ’relate’ to him, and the way he is, and the things with which he deals, because he’s had more things that age one, makes one older--experiences, responsibilities, wider exposure to the world and people.
“There might as well be a generation between us.
“I really belong with him, and others chronologically my age, but I’m instead with hanging around with people 10-15 years younger than myself.â€
“Right,†the business partner said; “but at least your genetics are retarded too, because at least superficially, you look younger than you are, and so when you’re with us, you don’t look out of place.â€
“That’s a silver lining, of course,†I said, “but it’s around a very big dark cloud. I really want to be with my own, people my own chronological age, but it’s never going to happen; compared with them, I’m always destined to be everybody’s vulnerable, naïve, youngest brother.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
“My sister-in-law also gave me a copy of an article about arrested development, again saying, ‘you know, that sounds exactly like franksolich.’
“That could be, but not necessarily because of deafness; some sort of traumatic event, or events, that causes one to ’freeze’ at a certain age.
“You’ve always struck people as having attitudes and conduct more suitable for, say, someone twenty-one years old, rather than your real age. A twenty-one-year-old’s an adult, and can be responsible, diligent, reliable, trustworthy, and all that, but still one’s a pretty young adult, again with a streak of juvenility.
“I think you stopped growing, emotionally, at about that age, twenty-one.
“That was right about the time all the troubles and pressures in your life were fading out, and you’d put up with a world of woes, the preceding four years--too much happened too soon, too fast, and you were too young.
“Most people are given years, decades--and as fully-grown adults--to absorb and deal with similar crises, but you had all these things, big things, happening all at once.
“I remember that when we had supper with [a long-ago college roommate of mine], he commented that everybody had serious concerns that you weren’t going to make it. And it didn’t help that you struggled to deal with them on your own, and you were having to deal with a lot.
“And so it’s as if, sometime around the age of twenty-one, you woke up one morning and said, ‘Okay, that’s it. I’m tired, I’m exhausted, I’m drained, I’m worn out. I don’t want to deal with growing up any more‘--and so you didn‘t.â€
Admirable accuracy, I thought to myself; that’s not quite the way it happened, but it’s pretty close to the way it happened.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Apparently you’re pretty run-of-the-mill when it comes to deaf people,†he said, “another pea in the pods, nothing unusual, but then another time my sister-in-law gave me article about deaf people, and said ‘that doesn’t sound like franksolich…..at all.’
“It was about how deaf people can be such timid wimps, always afraid of other people and new things, afraid to take risks, afraid to assert themselves.
“And there you are, brimful of sheer audacity and an impressive skill at extricating yourself from unpleasant people and situations.â€
“But don’t be so hard on them,†I reminded him.
“It’s true most deaf people are wimps, but it’s understandable, this being silent and unseen, especially if one’s always being thwacked on the head with a two-by-four because one wasn’t ‘paying attention’ or is ‘stupid’ or ‘disobeys’--when one has no idea what he was supposed to be paying attention to, or supposed to be learning, or supposed to be doing.â€
to be continued
-
“As I said, we were never close, given the great chasm in our ages, but then the past ten, fifteen, years, when we were the last surviving two of a large family, he and his wife made attempts to draw me closer, but really, I didn’t want to have anything to do with them.
“By that time, there appeared to be serious cerebral damage done both of them, from side-effects of the ‘cocktails’ of pharmaceuticals they were taking.
“Medically-prescribed pharmaceuticals are no different than illicit drugs, or alcohol; they’re composed of chemicals that affect the brain, for better or for worse.
“I have no skills in dealing with brain-damaged people.â€
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The business partner and I were coming back, and this time I was doing the driving and talking, while he did the listening.
“They became fixated on an old old issue, going clear back to when I was a kid, and for some reason--I dunno the reason, don’t have the slightest idea--it was very important to them that they convert me to their point of view.
“My family was of mixed denominations, my father being an Episcoplian, and my mother a Roman Catholic, and all the children were raised Catholic. From the time I was first aware of God and religion, I felt eminently comfortable what I’d been born, Catholic.
“The older brothers and sisters, descending in the abyss of hippiedom, of course rejected God and religion, instead alleging themselves adherents of science and logic.
“Science and logic is a good thing to have; I’m enthusiastic about science and logic,†I said as I lit another cigarette.
“However, reality is Infinite, while the human capacity to see and understand is finite. What’s finite can’t comprehend the Infinite.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
“None of the other brothers and sisters made as big a deal out of it as this brother and his wife did; they were, and even today in their corroded cerebral condition are still, belligerently hostile and intolerant of the slightest notion of God and religion. They’re Nazis about it, like the SidDithers primitive on Skins‘s island; hard-core iron-clad cold-blooded Nazis.
“Again, I have no idea why ‘converting’ me to their nonsense was so important; they both put a lot of time and work into it, which of course considerably frayed our already-tenuous association.
“I’m talking years of being yelled at about it.
“The very last time we met in person, seven years ago, their cerebral cells already fossilized, when leaving, I said, “I’m rather appreciative of God, and all that God’s done for me, and given me. **** this shit.â€
to be continued
-
Since I got back home late, I stopped at the bar in town to have a hamburger, extremely well done, pressed down hard on the grill so as to squeeze out every drop of grease, french fries cooked on the grill rather than in the fryer, and a side-dish of sour cream.
Wanda, the cook of Polish derivation whose specialty is Japanese cuisine, was cooking. It was a slow night, so she had time to wait on me at the cash-register too. As I paid, she pointed and commented, “I thought you should get done with your supper first before telling you, but anyway, that woman over there, at the end of the bar. She’s been waiting for you.â€
I looked, curious because I hadn’t expected to meet anybody here. There was in fact a woman sitting at the end of the bar, maybe 30-35 years old, dark hair, slender, her pair about the sizes of grapefruits.
I went over and introduced myself.
“Romeo sent me,†she said; “he wants me to teach you something.â€
I inwardly groaned; I didn’t want to deal with Romeo tonight.
“Oh no,†she said; “he’s on call tonight, and so has to sit at home and be available, in case he’s called.
“He told me to have you take me to your place, where I’m supposed to teach you something.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
Since she was from the big city, and so obviously had her own motor vehicle, I suggested she follow me back here, so we wouldn’t have to come back to town to get it. She also told me she had only a couple of hours, as she had to get up early in the morning.
When we arrived here, I turned on the lights in the living room and waited for her to give a clue about what we were supposed to be doing. She took off everything but her panties, and sat down on the couch.
“I’m not in any condition to be poked,†she explained, “but it doesn’t matter, because what we’re going to do doesn’t involve poking. Besides, I’m supposed to show you how to let a woman do it to you, not hop around in the sack, at least tonight.â€
My face fell. “But madam, I want to poke. I need to poke.â€
“No, Romeo says you have to learn this before Friday; he says I’m supposed to show you how to let me do it.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
“I already know that stuff,†I protested; “I’ve had women do it to me. Not often, but for years.â€
She looked puzzled. “But Romeo said you’ve never had a woman do it, that all you do is poke.â€
It dawned on me. “Romeo’s never seen me let a woman do it, that’s all. He’s just never seen it happen, and so assume I haven’t ever let it happen, period.
“The problem with it, madam, is that while it’s okay, in fact a lot of fun, it causes me to pop too soon, and I’d rather go on for some time before I pop.
“I don’t like to pop, and then be no good for a while. It’s a hassle, sitting around waiting to recharge.â€
“Well, I‘m sure that on Friday night, there‘ll be plenty to do inbetweentimes,†she insisted. “These woman from Omaha, I’ll bet they’re probably pretty imaginative, and can keep you entertained until you’re ready to let them do it to you again.
“Your friend Romeo’s already taken care of this--he really wants you to do well Friday night; he says you‘ve been under a lot of stress and tension lately--and so whether or not you’ve had a woman do it to you before, we might as get it done again.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
She waved her fingers, motioning for me to come forward, which I did, standing in front of her.
She pulled my shorts off, and intimately handled and closely inspected what‘d been under there.
“You know,†I said, “besides the problem I have, another reason I’ve been hesitant about having a woman do this to me is because I’ve always had the impression most women don’t like to do it; they consider it humiliating. And who can blame them?
“I mean, it’s not like having a slice of pizza.â€
“I love to do it,†she said.
“I’ll bet Romeo has you do it all the time,†I speculated; “he likes having it done, and unlike me, it takes time before he pops.â€
“Yes, he does like it,†she said, “but there’s a problem with your friend Romeo; while he wants to be pleasured, he doesn’t care the least about giving pleasure. Women like BainsBane go ga-ga over him because he’s so big, hung like a horse.
“But that’s all there is to him. He’s just a big dick, nothing else.â€
She touched and probed and rubbed. I squirmed. “This is like a physical examination by a physician.â€
“It’s my job,†she said, “like the unappellated eohippus on Skins’s island, I’ve inspected thousands.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
She finally yanked my assembly.
“Well, as a bonus,“ she said, “you’re so much cleaner than most men.
“A tad bit larger than ‘average,’ but not so much as to be out of line. It’s in perfect proportion to the rest of you.
“And so nice-looking, too; the surgeon who clipped you did a good job.
“I’m guessing you’re more arousing to women when you’re not aroused, than when you are; that you just casually walking around naked subtly electrifies them, turns them on.
“It’s too bad it’s been so underused, or so I’ve heard,†she added. “Lost opportunities to make so many women happy.â€
- - - - - - - - - - -
“Now, get up there,†she said, and I sat on the back of the couch against the wall, while she kneeled on the cushions.
Then she began stroking, and we both watched the expansion.
But alas she had barely gotten underway, as if she were having a popsicle, than I popped.
The suddenness seemed to shock her. “Romeo takes forever.â€
“But on the other hand, Romeo doesn’t last as long as I do, when it comes to poking,†I pointed out, needing to defend myself.
“Anyway. I told you this would happen; it’s never not happened. And now I’m no good for a while, until I’m recharged. If we had all night, it’d be okay, but we don’t have all night.
“I tell you what, madam--both you and I’ll tell Romeo I had the lesson, I let a woman do it to me, and I’m sure I can bluff my way through Friday night. I had a long day today, and you probably did too.
“Let’s just go out to the back porch for a while, have a drink and a cigarette, and then call it a night.â€
Which we did, but she also let me lay on top of me so that we could suck face and I could grope and paw her upper pair, at the same time holding her body tightly against mine, but not going in.
- - - - - - - - - -
In the morning, I arose about 5:00 a.m. and went into the kitchen to make coffee. While standing there, I glanced through the doorway to the dining room, seeing the property caretaker sitting at the table, so no point in taking trouble to put anything on. He was writing a note.
“Dude,†he said, as I walked in.
He and his wife were leaving about mid-morning to visit family in Iowa, and he was writing a list of things I had to do while they’re gone; they’ll be back Sunday evening.
I looked at the list. “Geezuz,†I said; “do you need another ream of paper to write on?â€
“Well, I forgot to write down the most important reminder. Big Mo’s she-women are coming on Saturday, so be careful; you know that they always believe the woman, even when she’s making it all up.â€
to be continued
-
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,†I said, as the business partner and I were driving through the Sandhills. We’d gotten done doing business, and were headed back here, myself driving.
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The trailer we were hauling had been loaded on our way there, and so the business partner had to do the first half of the driving, as while I have no problems pulling an empty trailer, or a trailer filled with inanimate objects, I won’t pull a trailer with live beings on it.
“It’s like when before I was born, God say, ‘Okay now, I’m going to give you a good body.
“’But because I don’t mean to give you any more than what I give everybody else, I’ll deny you ears.’
“Men who are bald, or short-statured, or rotund, got nothing to complain about; at least they have the chances to acquire social skills, to get along with other people.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
We stopped by the side of the road to have cigarettes; the pick-up truck we were using is for re-sale, and so best not to odorize its interior.
“Does your friend Romeo know Big Mo and her girls are coming?†the business partner asked.
No, I said; “I haven’t told him yet. All I’ve told him is about the carnies coming.
“I’m holding off as long as possible, because I don’t want to give him any ideas. You know that despite they’re primitives, with that many women, the odds are that at least one of them might appeal to him.
“And being primitives, attracted to superficial things, all of them are likely to get turned on by his winsome blond good looks, his gift of gab, and ultimately, his equipage.
“The last thing I need to deal with is a horde of screeching she-women all hot and excited.â€
“Actually,†the business partner said, “I think you should let him know about them.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
When we got back to town, we paid a courtesy call upon the retired property caretaker’s wife; he’s still undergoing physical therapy down in Lincoln, and she’s been alone. However, she’s been busy, getting ready for a big garage sale the week of the county fair (next week).
“I looked up these cadaver carvers on the internet, to see what they might bring,†she said, “and I’m coming up blank, because apparently they’re considered medical, not general-use, implements.
“The blades are Sheffield steel, the best steel there is.
“And oh my, they’re so big and heavy. I can barely lift them, much less use them.â€
Ah yes, the cadaver carvers. hippyhubby Wild Bill had years ago gotten them from an auction of surplus governmental property from a county coroner’s office down in northeastern Oklahoma, but then abandoned them, and much more, when he was up here over Memorial Day.
“Price them high,†I suggested; “they’d be handy for someone wanting to butcher a bison.â€
I inquired what she was going to do about hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer’s white cotton underdrawers, with their 56†waistline.
“I suppose I’ll put them out for the sale, rather than on eBay,†she said; “they won’t fit anyone from around here, but there’ll be lots of people from outside this area, that they might fit.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
We came back here, but on the way took the long way around, so as to check over the camp-site by the river, all set up for Big Mo & Co., to be sure the miniature Swiss Alpine chalet with the Clivis Multrum, the miniature Dutch windmill with the water-pump inside, and the miniature Missouri River houseboat, covered with chicken-wire fencing, hadn’t been messed with by anybody.
I started when I looked at the lilliputian houseboat.
It was full of chickens; there was no sign of it, but obviously Big Mo had arrived, from Illinois. Early.
to be continued
-
I was in the big city, picking up a check, after which I stopped in at a gasoline station.
I noticed a woman was staring at me, but ignored her, as I had no idea who she’d be; after all, there’s lots of times people stare at me for no decipherable reason, but as no harm comes of it, I don‘t worry about it.
Just as I was getting ready to walk out, she approached me, tapping me on the elbow.
Now, sometimes people, when wishing my attention, do that--there’s nothing wrong with it; it’s entirely appropriate--but the way it was done, I suddenly sensed this was someone who knows me.
“Hello, franksolich,†she said; “it’s good to see you again.â€
I looked at her. She was middle-aged, stout, with wrinkles and significant skin blemishes, and her hair was beginning to grey.
However, because of fond associations with the past, my gallant eyes didn’t see any of that; they saw only a nubile young woman fresh and soft, and I wanted to have her again.
“You haven’t changed hardly at all,†she insisted.
Now, I couldn’t lie and say the same, so instead I uttered, with sincere effervescence, “Damn…..it’s s-o-o-o-o good to see you, madam. It’s been so long, too long. It’s wonderful to see you.â€
After which we embraced and hugged, something I do, well, maybe, once or twice every three or four years.
I’d known her in college, but lost track of her when I took off for the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants during the early 1990s…..without remembering to save my Christmas card list with names and addresses.
We quickly got caught up; I told her, briefly, all that had transpired with me. Her fate however had not been as happy as mine. She’d become a desk-sitting governmental bureaucrat after graduation from college thirty years ago, with the resultant decadence and decay that happens when one’s overpaid and underworked, and in too easy, too secure, of a job.
It was all very sad.
However, because of fond associations with the past, my gallant eyes didn’t see any of that; they saw only a nubile young woman fresh and soft, and I wanted to have her again.
- - - - - - - - - -
I always counted my “first time†as happening in a dusty room of an attic when I was a sullen insolent 19-year-old. The lighted digital clock on the table said “2247†when I’d gone in, and “2302†when I’d left. But if the “first time†means complete hopping around in the sack, she’d been it, some months afterwards.
We went to the coffee shoppe next door, to sit and talk a bit.
“You know, that was all set up on purpose,†she commented.
Sure, I said; “I always suspected it, and wondered why so many people went through so much trouble to do it. Originally, I thought it was a prank, so I’d do something stupid or ridiculous, and everybody could make fun of me, but later it dawned on me it might’ve been for some other reason, either silly or serious, but not that reason.â€
“Everybody was concerned for you,†she said; “there were so many things happening, pulling you down. Everybody had you on ‘suicide watch’ the entire four years.â€
Nonsense, I said; “I had no intention of doing such a thing.â€
“But we weren’t sure,†she continued; “you were under ungodly stress and tension, and we didn’t know how a person could possibly take all of it, and were sure you’d have to snap. It hardly assured us that you wouldn’t talk about anything that was happening--â€
“There wasn’t anything to talk about,†I interrupted; “they were my problems, my pressures, and they needed dealt with. By me; I wasn‘t articulate enough to talk about things at that age.
“And like good luck, bad luck sooner or later ends; I got over all of it.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
“You know we had an audience,†she said.
Uh huh, I said, “Based upon later comments by others, I was sure they’d all been sitting right outside the door, listening.
“Life’s unfair, the way hearing people can do that, but deaf people can’t.â€
“Theyâ€--she referring to my six roommates and a couple of other people--â€were doing more than just listening; they were actually seeing, too.
“Right in front of you; most of them were watching through the window, but you didn’t see them because there wasn’t anything to prompt you to look out the window. You were concentrated on something else.â€
She laughed. “You treated me as if I were delicate, fragile, and that if you touched me too hard, I’d shatter. I surely hope you’ve since learned that women aren’t as breakable as you used to think we were.â€
to be continued
-
Around suppertime, I thought I saw something going on down by the river, and peered through the telescope to check. There’s a high-school telescope that’s mounted on a railing of the back porch, put there years ago by the now-retired property caretaker, who thought I should keep better tabs on my company; it’s about 500 yards from here to there.
It was a woman, but I couldn’t tell much else. She was walking from a car to the lilliputian houseboat, where the chickens were stored.
Reasonably assuming it might be Big Mo, I got into a truck and drove over there.
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She was a taller middle-aged woman, with closely-shorn near-white hair and considerable body-tattoos, and from the way her fat was, obviously afflicted with dropsy, from too many pharmaceutical drugs.
She smiled upon seeing me, and I smiled back, jumping out of the truck.
After introductions, she told me she’d come early so as to get set up for the rest of the anti-men she-women primitives coming here. And besides, she was going nuts in Chicago; she had to get away.
We indulged in some idle chitchattery, during which time she inquired about the best pharmacy in the big city, and illuminated me as to their plans.
- - - - - - - - - -
When it was time for me to leave, I got into the truck and drove six miles up the road to see the neighbor’s wife, who’s handy for venting.
“Damn, damn, damn,†I said; “all that work, and for nothing.
“Originally, they all were going to camp out there, but now the plans are that they’re just going to use this place to park Big Mo’s chickens and hang around the Great Outdoors during the day…..and then at night, they’ll all head to [the big city] to stay in the three-star luxury hotel there.
“I feel s-o-o-o-o-o used.
“It was Ms. Vanderbilt-Astor, the NJCher primitive, who convinced them to change their plans; she told Skippy and Wills that this place is infested with snakes, and they being who they are, got all worried and afraid.
“And then the great-aunt from Chicago reminded everybody that franksolich lives out here ‘somewhere,’ and the rest of them got scared. They wanted to spend nights where they can be ‘secure.’
“Damn, damn, damn,†I repeated; all that work, and for nothing.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
Still indignantly flapping my arms, I got back into the truck and drove to town, where I met the business partner for supper.
“You know, my place is a popular place to camp,†I told him, after ranting. “I could’ve given that spot to someone else who’d appreciate the opportunity.â€
Or to the carnies, the business partner reminded me. “I told you so; you have to quit trying to please people who aren’t going to like you anyway no matter what you do, and please people who’re grateful.â€
“Damn,†I repeated.
“Well, you’ll still have them during the day,†he reminded me, “and I have no doubt they can compress twenty-four hours of miser--er, amusement, for you, down into twelve hours, no problem.â€
Now, the business partner’s never been enthusiastic about any of the campers here, and so usually doesn’t get involved, and it surprised me when he made a suggestion.
“Their concern about snakes--despite that you’ve never seen any--is understandable, and yes, we don’t want that to complicate their enjoyment here. But their concern about franksolich is silly, preposterous.
“The primitives have no idea what franksolich is like, not the slightest clue.
“How about while they’re here, you just be you, and I’ll be franksolich?â€
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to be continued
-
Darkness had already fallen, but I hadn’t gone to bed yet, when Romeo came by. He was on-call for the night again, and had come out this way to check on something.
And, forlornly, to tell me something.
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“The women from Omaha, they called and had to postpone. They can’t come tomorrow night.â€
I fumed. First, the rejection of my hospitality by Big Mo & Co., and now, this.
“It’s not all bad,†he assured me. “They’re coming here next Friday night; I’m supposed to go down there and get them, bring them back here.â€
“Next Friday night,†I said, between clenched teeth, “the whole entire northeastern corner of the state’ll be right here, just five miles away. We’re going to get no privacy; we might as well have the party in the middle of Times Square on New Year‘s Eve.â€
I knew the women weren’t playing a game, with plans of dropping the idea. No woman’s ever been known to say “no†to Romeo, and so there was probably a legitimate reason they couldn’t come tomorrow night.
Since he probably hadn’t had supper, I suggested to Romeo that he explore the refrigerator for something to eat. He did, and came out with a handful of strip filet steaks, and fired up the barbeque grill. I’d eaten earlier in the evening, but went inside to look myself, coming out with an already-cooked dried-out hamburger that had been in there, and tossed that on the grill to cook some more.
As we waited, sitting on the back porch, Romeo having a beer, he said, “And they’re giving us a bonus, for having to put it off. A friend of theirs is coming up too.â€
Uh, problem, I said. “We’re just two guys, and I’m not about to let a third one get in on these sessions.
“Maybe you can handle two women at the same time, but I’m equipped to handle only one.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
“It’ll work out,†he said. “I also got more information about them. I know you prefer Hebraic women, and thought one of these might be of Italianate derivation, which she is, although she at least looks Jewish.
“The second’s of Greek derivation, but at least she looks Jewish.
“I’ve been told the third one, who I haven’t seen, is also tall, slender, dark brown hair, pale skin, long fingers, reasonable jugs, and a slightly-larger-than-normal nose, so she apparently also looks Jewish--but she’s of the Argentine persuasion.â€
“I’ll judge them when I see them,†I said.
- - - - - - - - - -
Romeo commented that I seemed “out of sorts.â€
Yeah, I’m sorry, I said; “My hospitality’s been rejected by the primitive she-women. They’ll be around, but they’re not going to camp here. Apparently the accommodations aren’t nice enough.â€
Romeo looked at me as if I were Bozo from Outer Space.
I suddenly remembered; while I’d told him about the carnies coming, I hadn’t told him about Big Mo & Co., for fear that he’d try to pick one of them up, causing all sorts of problems for me.
Well, that didn’t matter any more. As far as I was concerned, Attila the Hun was welcome now.
And so I explained Big Mo & Co. to him.
“Whoa,†he replied; “all those women.â€
“Primitive she-women though,†I reminded him.
“Oh, but with that number, at least one of them’s probably worth bedding,†he said.
“Anti-men primitive she-women,†I added.
“Oh, but after I get done with her, whichever one it is, she’ll be pro-man. For sure.â€
to be continued
-
After Romeo left, it was about midnight, and so way past time to hit the sack, but before I could, a flashlight appeared in the darkness, approaching me on the back porch.
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/august/1006_zps634497e8.jpg) (http://s1100.photobucket.com/user/Eferrari/media/august/1006_zps634497e8.jpg.html)
It was hippyhubby Wild Bill’s brother, the one born with both eyes on the same side of his nose; one of the four carnies camping about a mile south of this house, waiting for the carnival to get down here from South Dakota and set up for next week’s county fair.
He said if it wasn’t too much trouble, he wanted to visit. I said no, no trouble at all, and directed him into the garage to the three ancient refrigerators kept there, stocked with beer.
As the grill was still burning, I also suggested he check the refrigerator in the kitchen, for anything he’d like to cook. And so he brought out a half-pound steak and slapped it on there.
These were perhaps the real reasons he’d come; food pantries don’t give out beer, and food pantry food can get monotonous. A self-centered motive perhaps, but one couldn’t blame him, as the life of carnies isn’t exactly a bed of roses.
He said the four already here were doing fine, given their circumstances. Because business had been slow up in South Dakota, Louie, the owner of the carnival had laid off four of them--the four now here--telling them to come back on board when the enterprise reached this county fair, which always does well.
They were still going to the big city every day, to visit free food places and cadge up gasoline money.
Their problem was with the heavy-set heavily-mascara’ed tattooed woman, who chain-smoked cigarettes, and even though cigarettes are cheaper (although not by much) in Nebraska than in the states surrounding, keeping her supplied with them was straining the budget pretty badly.
- - - - - - - - - -
I asked him about news from northeastern Oklahoma; he had none, and so instead elaborated on all that he’d told me earlier; what’d happened after the precipitous flight of hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer and hippyhubby Wild Bill over Memorial Day.
“Wild Bill’s convinced he was baptized, getting the ‘Jesus germ,’ and’s been worse than ever.â€
I pointed out he hadn’t been baptized; he’d simply fallen into the water near to where Lamond was baptizing other people. That bolt of lightning that had occurred when I raised my hand towards the sky, startling him so he fell off the boat, had been a nice coincidence, but only a coincidence.
“That’s true,†the brother said, “but he believes he got baptized.
“Once we got back, he started taking laxatives, cathartics, emetics, and other purgatives, so as to expel it, this ‘Jesus germ,' but this far, the only result’s been his chronically upset stomach and sore rectal aperture.
“He’s been a monster, beating hippywife two or three times a day, besides hitting any of his brothers who happen to be in reach. He’s really easy to set off. Wild Bill’s no happy man.â€
to be continued
-
“Well, that was terrible,†the neighbor’s wife said; “all those people watching you.â€
By the way, the neighbor’s wife has never seen franksolich less than appropriately attired.
I suppose most would take it that way, I replied; “but given the time and place and people, it wasn’t a big deal, being watched in flagrante delicto. Initially of course there was shock, and then embarrassment, but those wore off quickly. Everybody does sex, even if they’re not being watched; being caught in the act doesn't make it any more 'bad' than not being caught in the act.
“But really, again, given the time and place and people, it wasn’t a big deal.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
The neighbor’s wife’s known the “back story†for years, but anyway, when I was in college, I lived in a big old house with six other guys, two of them from Omaha and four, like me, from western Nebraska. We were 18-23 years old; I was the youngest. It was a bad time to be me, and so I was evolving into a rather sullen, insolent individual.
We were all nice guys, traditional, conservative, church-going, all that, but we were guys after all, and it was sort of Animal Houseish. It was also one of the most famous ‘party houses’ near campus; living there could be pretty raucous, noisy, and coarse.
The oldest one there, the informal “boss†of the house, was a cowboy from western Nebraska who was in graduate school. Feeling sorry for me as if a lost and confused youngest brother, he favored me. He was the one who ‘saved’ me from having to live in a dormitory, as I wasn’t exactly social.
He’s since been married for years and years and years, to the same woman, and has several children, all of them contributing members of society. In all the years since, whenever I’ve needed something, he’s been one of the first in line to be sure I got what it was I needed.
“But alas, he’s gotten older, heftier, and balding, which makes me very sad,†I said.
- - - - - - - - - -
“One morning right after I moved there, when I walked into the kitchen, I saw him standing propped against the sink, smoking a cigarette while talking with two of our other roommates, who were seated at the table, ready to rush off to classes.
“They were dressed, and he was stark naked, but acted with as much composure and poise as if he’d been wearing one of those three-piece suits he later wore as a banker.
“This guy was confident. It’s been years, but I’ve yet to see another person so nonchalant, so suave, when in a situation that’s usually considered vulnerable, defenseless, embarrassing.
“Well, what does one do when confronting a naked person? One can’t help but look, but on the other hand, it’s impolite to look. And one’s concerned about what the naked person’s thinking; one expects him to turn red and retreat, but what if he doesn’t?
“One’s not supposed to stare, but I did. He, and the two at the table watched me for my reaction; this was probably some sort of unplanned by-chance ‘test’ to see what sort of roommate I’d be.
“He had a tight, firm body, and wasn‘t small.
“’Nice hair,’†I bravely said as I walked by with arched eyebrows looking down, it being obvious to which hair I was referring.â€
- - - - - - - - - - -
“I thought it odd, but didn’t question it. I had God, and then him on a slightly-lower platform; it‘d be ungrateful of me to question whatever he did, no matter how bizarre.
“We were all guys, and of course could be coarse and vulgar, but the extent of our own exposure was usually merely sleeping in the buff, or undressing in one’s bedroom and then walking down the long hallway to go take a bath.
“He however, for whatever reasons, preferred long-term exposure.
“One got used to it.
“If he knew girlfriends or parents wouldn’t be visiting--and being a hearing person, he always knew when it was safe--he’d lay on the couch in the altogether watching television; it didn’t make any difference to him what we other six thought. It was his turf, and he could do as he damned well pleased.
“He was so nonchalant about it, so cool. He was laid-back and mellow about everything. Nothing bothered him.â€
- - - - - - - - - - -
“I wanted to have his attitude--actually, I needed to acquire his attitude, his steely nerve and insolent confidence--and so like him, began sleeping without anything on, or if up and about, if it was early and there wasn’t anybody around to be offended, insouciantly remaining in the buff until it was necessary to put something on.
“It worked. I grew flippant, even when provoking comments, catcalls, from the other roommates.
“In fact, I became rather cocksure about it--’well, whoop-de-do…..so…..?’ sometimes squeezing or jiggling what dangles, for extra effect.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
“By the time I graduated from college, I’d changed considerably--not only because I no longer did significant wear-and-tear to underwear, but because of so many other things that‘d happened--and some people didn’t like it.
“The older brothers and sisters, and friends from high school, insisted I’d become arrogant, swaggering, and full of myself, and they didn’t like it. I got yelled at a lot, but they hadn‘t lived my life, to know what it was like.
“As far as I was concerned, it sure as Hell beat what I’d been before.â€
to be continued
-
“So…..how are you going to handle it?†the femme asked when she dropped by later in the morning, bringing with her things she thought I could use. She’s moving to South Dakota at the end of the month, where she’ll be teaching dance and the theatre arts.
“How are you going to handle all these anti-men primitive she-women, especially the way they slapped you in the face?â€
I dunno, I said, “but I’ll figure out something. I’ve thought about introducing them to the carnies and to Romeo so as to get their panties in a wad, clutching their pearls, but I haven’t decided yet.
“For now, I’m just going to let things evolve naturally.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
A little bit later, Big Mo drove up into the front yard.
She was curious about another “good†pharmacy in the big city, being unsatisfied with the one I’d suggested.
Pharmacies aren’t exactly anything about which I know a whole lot, but I pointed out the one I’d sent her to had a reputation for its great customer service.
“But it’s a small one,†she said, “and with a small inventory. Some of what I need, they have to have overnighted from Omaha. They don’t carry every drug in the book.
“They carry something for the West Nile virus, but not the East Nile virus or the North Nile virus or the South Nile virus, and I got those, too.â€
Well, I said, “then probably you’ll have to use Wal-Mart instead.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
Even though they were going to spend nights in that three-star luxury hotel in the big city, the primitive she-women would be spending days out here, and so I thought it a good idea to get Big Mo, their leader, acquainted with the terrain.
“Let’s go into town so I can show you what’s what, and what’s where,†I suggested.
Big Mo agreed; she needed to pick up some things anyway.
As we were going there--it’s eight miles away--she confided in me the sordid details of her recent divorce, including that she resented her ex-husband because he gave her everything she wanted, catered to her every whim, fulfilled her every desire.
I arched my eyebrows. “Resented†him for that? It must be women’s-libber logic.
- - - - - - - - - -
But regardless, I found myself fond of Big Mo; her style and manners with the locals.
She talked the language, knew her stuff, and got all nice and friendly with red country folk. And her liking of them was sincere, honest. At heart, Big Mo showed herself a “down home†sort of person, and those we met, reciprocated her warmth.
I wondered how the others’d be. CaliforniaPeggy and the cbayer primitive, although elitist blue-state snobs, would probably get along okay with the hoi polloi, given that their good breeding and manners would override any repugnance they had about Republicans and “fundies.†While “cordiality†isn’t the same thing as “affection,†it sure beats many other ways one could act.
The others coming here, I wasn’t so sure. In fact, I was rather uneasy.
- - - - - - - - - -
Near the end of our trip, Big Mo told me she needed to get more chicken feed.
I hit a brick wall. The town’s small, circa 1500 people, but I had no idea where one would get chicken feed.
In the halcyon days of yore, every small town boasted a chicken hatchery and accompanying feed store.
But because of the constant, clamorous blue-state primitive demand for cheap groceries in the face of inflation--as if food grows on trees--such small-town businesses had consolidated over time so as to pare expenses, and have since concentrated in larger places, abandoning smaller places.
As far as I knew, Big Mo would have to buy chicken feed in the big city, probably at Wal-Mart.
Primitives demand cheap goods, and they get them. And if they don’t like where they have to go to get them, well, it’s their own damned fault. They wanted cheap goods.
I’ve lived around here thirteen years, and I was damned if I could think of any place that sold chicken feed.
Finally a gentleman at the gasoline station directed us to a lawn-mower and small equipment repair shop, where chicken feed was sold out of a back room as a favor for local poultry hobbyists, although Big Mo balked at the price.
to be continued
-
After we unloaded the chicken feed--we stashed it inside the miniature Dutch windmill, around the water pump--and I was leaving to walk back up to the house, I asked Big Mo, “Okay now, who’s still coming, and when? Is everybody meeting here first, or at your digs in [the big city]?
“I need to keep a census so I can know if something’s wrong.â€
She consulted a list she kept on a piece of paper tucked behind her ear.
“Well, I’m still the only one who’s arrived and checked at the hotel, but right about this minute, Skippy should be in the airport in Omaha, waiting for the great-aunt from Chicago and the husband-hating elleng primitive to arrive on later flights from their homes. Since I was the only one who could drive this distance, everybody else has to rent cars, and they’re sharing rides and the expense.
“Skippy & Co. should be at the hotel sometime around supper-time.
“Tomorrow morning, Saturday, the cbayer primitive’ll arrive into Omaha, and she has to hang around until LynneSin and the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive arrive on their flights two, three, hours later, and they’ll drive up here, to meet us here, not at the hotel.
“About early afternoon tomorrow, the raccoon-bitten Aerows primitive and Wills should arrive into Omaha about the same time but on different flights, but they’ll have to wait around until late afternoon when flyarm arrives, and ride up here with her. We’ll be back at the hotel by then, and we’ll have supper.
“CaliforniaPeggy won’t arrive until Sunday afternoon, and she’ll ride with the NJCher primitive, whose flight lands in Omaha about supper-time, at which time we’ll be having a cook-out here, but they’re going to the hotel, and won’t come out here until Monday.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
Back at the house, feeling guilty, I decided to do something for the carnies camping over at the other place, at the same time being illuminated about when the rest of their crowd’s coming. There’s four of them here right now, and there’s supposed to be about thirty of them arriving sometime during the middle of the night, very early Sunday morning.
I loaded a truck and drove over to the Italianate spread, where the four were camping.
From the edge of the pasture, I noticed Italianate Jesus was poking the overweight over-mascara’ed tattooed woman, on a sheet laid over the ground near the trailer. Figuring it bad manners to intrude, I skirted the edge of the pasture, looking around for the other two.
Wild Bill’s brother, the one born with both eyes on the same side of his nose, and the handkerchiefless one with the always-running nose were standing on the banks of the river, fishing for lunch.
“I brought you some stuff,†I announced, as I got out of the truck.
“A couple of cases of beer, some steaks and condiments, buns and bread, bags of chips, and for the lady, a carton of cigarettes.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
Then I drove to town, to eat lunch at the bar there. Yashoda, the cook of Japanese derivation whose specialty is Germanic cuisine, and who’s the head chef at the country club in the big city, was substituting for someone else, smiled when he saw me.
No one had to come and take my order, a hamburger well-done, pressed down hard on the grill so as to squeeze out every drop of grease, french fries cooked on the grill rather than in the fryer, and a side-dish of sour cream.
Life’s a lot less complicated when others can read one’s mind; no chitchattery necessary.
As it’d been a slow lunch hour, Yashoda himself came to the cash-register when I went to pay.
“That stacked blonde over there, at that one table,†he said, putting his spread-out hands way out in front of his chest, “she’s looking for you.
“dutch508 sent her to you.â€
to be continued
-
Curious, although not as curious as the last time, I went over to the table indicated, and after introducing myself, pulled up a chair.
She was blonde, but rather than stacked, she was sagged.
Of course she wore clothing appropriate for both the public and the weather, but she must not have been using a brassiere, as her jugs underneath the blouse hung straight down, their tips actually rubbing on the surface of the table.
So, I said; “you’re not from around here. Your body language has an ‘accent’ that’s different.â€
“I’m from dutch508’s stable,†she said. “He told me to come see you.â€
A fine man, dutch508, I agreed.
“Oh, he’s much more than just ‘fine,’†she said; “dutch508 is s-o-o-o-o-o-o good.
“He’s got a big pool and sauna in his basement, and it’s fun when we all go down there. Him and ten, twelve, of us girls.â€
I arched my eyebrows.
Oh no, she protested; “dutch508 can handle all of us on his own.
“He did have a problem several days ago, though, when some broad from Minneapolis showed up.
“But never mind that,†she said; “he sent me here to teach you how to like something you don’t like.â€
to be continued
-
“Now, wait a minute,†I said, suddenly growing somewhat hostile.
“I know what dutch508 has in mind, and it ain’t gonna happen.
“Even if I were blind, I still wouldn’t be turned on by a pair more appropriate for a hippopotamus than for a human woman. It’s a bodily deformity, it’s grotesque, it’s way out of proportion to all other parts of one’s being.
“I feel sorry for women hauling around such an enormous burden.â€
She didn’t even flinch. “dutch508 told me about your attitude, and I guess he was right.â€
“I have no idea why women with this burden don’t see it; they’re being admired for their freakness, not their beauty.â€
“So…..you’re a man, and you don’t like them. Did something happen to your brain at some time?â€
“No, my brain’s fine-tuned for aesthetics--â€
“Well, dutch508 was pretty insistent that I teach you how to learn to like them, and if I go back there and tell him that I failed, he’s going to ask why, and what do I tell him?â€
“Tell him it was doomed to fail from the beginning,†I said.
“I’ve always been this way about it, and it’s far too late for me to change. I was hostile about oversized pairs even before I reached sexual maturity. Even as a kid, I didn’t like the sight, all these poor women having to tote around all this extra weight. For nothing.
“My first touching experience with them waited until I was 14 years old, though, and I was at a truck stop out in western Nebraska in the middle of the night with my best friend. We were too young to drive, but we drove anyway--there’s no traffic out in the Sandhills in the middle of the night, and a particular 225-mile stretch was all ours.
“We stopped at the only truck stop that was open in the middle of the night--225 miles west of where we lived--and walked right into the middle of throngs of burly hardened truck-drivers and their molls, women all out of proportion on their bodies with fat bulges in all the wrong places, an inch of make-up on their faces, sordidly drunk, and wearing skimpy halter-tops.
“As we walked inside the door, one particular woman sitting on a barstool, drunk and smoking a cigarette, saw us and squealed, “Oh, lookee here, a couple of young ’uns. Two root beers for the boys, please.â€
“As she turned around to look at us better, her big jugs swung around too, slapping us in the face.
“Both of us never cared for oversized women’s upper parts especially after that, always associating them--even if appearances contradicted--with loud, brassy, heavy-set over-cosmeticized, loose women.
“But, I tell you what, madam. We’ll go to my place, and you can give it your best shot.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
Some hours later, the two of us were sitting on the back porch, soaking up the supper-time sun. She was going to have to hurry, to get back to the other side of the Sandhills by morning, but wanted to put down a couple of beers and cigarettes beforehand.
I was sitting on a chair facing her on the chaise longue, her ponderous weights looking very much like fat flattened pancakes. Really big pancakes.
While I of course had taken off everything, she’d never taken off her panties, despite my frantic pulling at them, insisting it’d get me all aroused, when I was supposed to get aroused by her top half, not her bottom half. “You’ll just want to dive in, and forget all about what you’re supposed to learn to like.â€
“Well, madam,†I said; “I tried, I tried my damnedest, and it didn’t work. I did everything to them that you told me to, and some that you didn’t. I played with them, I flip-flopped them, I caressed them, I kissed them, I vacuumed them, I twirled them, I nibbled them, I nearly smothered myself burying my face in them, and it didn’t work.
“I’m still as soft as Jello.
“You’ll just have to tell dutch508 I’m incorrigible on the matter; oversized jugs just can’t turn me on.â€
to be continued
-
“Well, I’ll look for a woman for you, who’ll teach you to like them,†Romeo said.
He’d just gotten off work in early evening, and was over here cooking his supper on the grill in the back yard. I suspect he does this because this place is merrier than his place. Also, it should be pointed out that I don’t feed the masses by myself; lots of people bring, and leave, food here for cookouts, and there’s always leftovers available for anyone who wants them.
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Uh, no, I said; “if dutch508 can’t do it, then nobody can. Don’t bother.â€
“I talked with one of the women down in Omaha today,†he mentioned; “the Argentine. The reason they decided to not come tonight, and come a week from tonight instead, is that they want to go to the county fair too.
“The Argentine, she says she’s heard a lot about you, mostly from some really fat guy with the Omaha Police Department. She says he doesn’t seem to like you, but from what he’s complained about you, she’s gotten to like you.
“She says the Italianate woman is an organizer for the Democrat party in Omaha--I’d been told she was a political organizer, whatever that is, but hadn’t been told which denomination. Is that going to be a problem?â€
“I don’t know why it should be,†I answered; “I’m a nice guy.â€
“She also says the Greek woman, after seeing that picture of you smoking a cigarette, is all hot and excited to meet you.â€
“What picture did you send her?†I asked; “nearly all pictures of me show me with a cigarette.â€
“That one that was taken at that one place.â€
“Oh. That was a good one. Better than the one taken at that other place.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
“About the primitive she-women,†Romeo continued; “are any of them here yet? I don’t want to have a lonely evening.â€
Yeah, right, I thought to myself. Romeo never has a lonely evening; all he has to do is show up where there’s women, gab a bit, and he’s got one for the night. It’s just too bad he never gets the same one for more than one night, but he creates that problem himself, by never calling any of them back.
“Well, you’ll have one tonight,†I advised him, “a lonely night, I mean.
“Big Mo got here yesterday, and if what I was told panned out, Skippy, the great-aunt from Chicago, and the husband-hating elleng primitive are in [the big city] right now too, at that fancy-smancy hotel, where they’ll all spend the night.
“The rest’ll come on Saturday, and Sunday, although I get the feeling Ms. Vanderbilt-Astor, the NJCher primitive, isn’t ever going to come out here at all, instead spending her time enjoying all the features of that three-star luxury hotel, like the free massages and beauty treatments and cosmetologic services.
“Coming out here into the wilds intimidates her; she’s afraid of fresh air and wild animals, being more used to living near the squalor and stench of Newark instead.
“She’ll probably paddle around the hotel all day in a bathrobe and slippers, getting treated like the queen she apparently supposes she is.â€
“This guy Skippy, what’s he doing at a get-together of anti-men primitive she-women?â€
“Well,†I replied; “Skippy’s a member of the male race, true, but he’s a wimp, not a man.â€
to be continued
-
In the morning, I was out in the yard on the north side of the house cleaning and polishing croquet balls when I saw three figures walking from Big Mo’s camp-site towards the house. As it’s quite a distance, it took a while to sort them out. But obviously Big Mo had sent them to introduce themselves.
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The first was a middle-aged man, although one who looked healthier than most his age, a little bit pudgy rather than flabby. I suspected that 30-35 years ago, he might’ve been a California beach boy, surfer boy, playboy, but now he was just simply a playboy.
He had skin that showed the premature ageing that happens when one spends too much time out in the sun; it wasn’t horribly bad, but noticeably bad. He spoke with a slight lisp that could be detected by lip-reading, and one got the impression it bothered him more than it bothered other people.
But the giveaway was the poor choice of his haberdashery, as if he bought polyester clothing by mail-order from Blair in Warren, Pennsylvania, or Haband in Oakland, New Jersey. Not “California cool†at all.
As long as he was going to look ridiculous, he would’ve looked better in lederhosen.
This was, obviously, Skippy, who’d been educated in one of the premier engineering colleges in America, bright enough to get a full-ride scholarship…..a first-class, top-notch, education, but he’d later become a run-of-the-mill desk-sitting governmental bureaucrat, throwing all the “investment†in him out the window.
He was wearing thigh-high leather leggings and carrying a rod with a loop on the end of it.
“What’s up with that?†I asked.
“There’s snakes around here, and I don’t want bitten,†he said.
And here I was, standing in my bare feet, in shorts and sleeveless t-shirt, no weapon.
I silently snorted. “Did you see any on your way here? That’s a long walk through some rather high grass and thick brush, favorite places for snakes to hide. If this were like other places, surely you saw nests and clumps of them, on your way over here.â€
“Well, I was told there were snakes here,†he insisted.
“Maybe there are, maybe there aren’t,†I replied; “I’ve lived out here nine years, I’ve never seen a snake.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
A woman was walking alongside Skippy. She was reasonably ancient, of the old-maid great-aunt sort, although unlike most of them, instead of being tall and thin, she was of average height and squarely built, including her face. Doughy, matronly, and gave the impression of one of those unfortunate elderly women who eats daintily, like a sparrow, but the bulk stubbornly remains.
There was a touch of hair on her upper lip, and she probably keeps a bird in a cage hanging in her dining room.
“Would you happen to know a franksolich who lives around here?†she asked.
Yes, the great-aunt from Chicago, who’d been one of the late red round one’s acolytes during the Scamdal nine years ago. She’d been duped, just like all the others, but for a while she was also living in a peril about which she was wholly ignorant, being a real-life neighbor of Fat Che’s, and not knowing what the benburch primitive really was.
Fortunately for her, nothing happened, and Fat Che long ago left the neighborhood, his house foreclosed.
Yeah, I said; “he does live around here. A nice guy, franksolich, one of the nicest guys one can ever hope to meet. Would give the shirt off his back, even if he didn’t have a spare one in the closet.
“A friend of the friendless, a benefactor of humanity, franksolich.
“How unhappy, the lives of those who don’t know franksolich.â€
The great-aunt had no idea who franksolich is in real life, and the business partner had proposed to play the role himself, while I simply played myself. I’d leave him to play franksolich as he wished, with no prompting from me.
“Well, does he ever come around here, to this place?†the great-aunt asked.
Yeah, he does, I answered, hesitant about saying more.
“Will he be coming around today, or sometime this week?â€
Now I could be honest. “I dunno; he comes and goes at random. He’s the kind of person who’s here today, gone tomorrow. He might, or he might not, be around the next few days.
“But if you run into him, you’ll be awed by his uprighteousness, his moral rectitude, his decency and goodness, his all-encompassing compassion, his embrasure of all mankind.â€
The great-aunt snorted.
- - - - - - - - - -
The third was a melancholy-faced woman in her late 60s, shy and hesitant, as if she wasn’t exactly sure why she was out here, other than that Big Mo invited her. She’d obviously never been in this part of the world before, but seemed bravely to try to adjust to it.
She was of the Hebraic sort, but alas, short.
I also gathered that fifty years ago, she’d been of the “sorority girl, college co-ed†sort, and perhaps almost a debutante. My “gold†standard on judging women of Hebraic derivation is given by the wives of graduates of Brandeis University who, from the first time I met any of them--and I’ve met many--impressed me by their grace, class, elegance, and good manners.
The elleng primitive fell far short of that, but she was at least of the “bronze,†maybe even the “silver†standard, which is saying something, especially when it comes to the general run of primitives on Skins’s island.
Since she seemed intimidated by her surroundings, I decided it was best to not complicate things by myself intimidating her too, and so other than some formal cordialities, I decided to leave her alone for the time being, until she got more used to things, and to me.
- - - - - - - - - -
The neighbor’s wife was here after the three visitors had left.
“You know,†I said, “of the four I’ve met so far, Big Mo has them all beat by a mile. The other three aren’t so hot, and it’s obvious they aren’t going to like me no matter how much I kiss their asses.
“Big Mo’s a little better than I’d thought she’d be, especially the way she gets along with people here. There’s no reason for outsiders to not get along with people here, but these are primitives, after all, who are always looking for excuses to dislike people.
“But Big Mo’s a little bit irksome in one way; she’s always asking me about pharmacies in [the big city], and while I tell her, I remind her I really don’t know this stuff.
“I’ve lived in this area thirteen years now. There’s dozens of pharmacies in [the big city]. I’ve been in any one of them, what? three times in thirteen years. I just went in, gave the prescription to some guy wearing a white smock, got the drug, paid the twenty or thirty bucks, and that was it.
“She seems to think everybody goes to get pharmaceuticals about as often as they go out and buy groceries.
“But other than that, Big Mo’s okay; she’s the best so far.â€
to be continued
-
I was chitchatting with Italianate Jesus, the head of the four carnies already here, late this afternoon, when I was illuminated I’d gotten something wrong.
Such is par for the course; if I get a fifth of all that I’m told right, I’m doing good. It’s not because of stupidity, of course; it’s simply because if one’s deaf, one’s always doomed to get a whole lot of things wrong because of ineffective, spotty, random “communication reception.â€
Being deaf is as if one has a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle, but only 278 or 142 or 67 of the pieces are in the box. One puts those together, and then uses speculation to fill in the blanks, to get the whole thing.
And I’ve speculated pastoral landscapes out of puppies, for example.
Excresence happens; one lives with it, as obviously I do.
- - - - - - - - - -
Anyway, the carnies--there’ll be 30-40 of them--aren’t coming tonight. It’s the last night of a county fair somewhere up in South Dakota, but as Italianate Jesus told me, there’s a whole lot of work with taking down a carnival, too.
The fair up there officially ends tonight and things are taken apart and loaded in the morning, beginning Sunday morning, after which on to the next venue.
“But there’s always still people lingering around on Sunday, so we pick up a few bucks giving them rides and letting them play games, until the last minute when something has to be taken down. Louie, the owner of the carnival, doesn’t get in on that; it gets us beer money for the following week.
“Based on past experience, they’ll show up here on Monday,†Italianate Jesus said.
I brought him inside the house, telling him that the four already here, given their straitened circumstances, were free to raid the refrigerator, for leftovers. He took some half-cooked steaks, a large salad meant to feed ten, a couple loaves of bread, a three-quarters chocolate sheet-cake, and a half-ham.
I handed three large bags of chips his way--they got plenty of condiments (ketchup, mustard, other sauces) where they’re at--and two cases of beer. Strictly speaking, the beer isn’t mine to give away, but I’m sure all those who keep three ancient refrigerators in the garage stuffed to the gills with beer, won’t mind; they’re generous people.
- - - - - - - - - -
After I drove Italianate Jesus back to the carnie camp-site on Meyer and Alberto’s real-estate next door, and came back here, there were three women standing on the ground in front of the front porch, hollering for someone to come to the door.
“That won’t work,†I said, without saying why it wouldn’t work.
“You’re supposed to just walk inside,†I added, without saying why one was supposed to do that.
I nodded to the first woman, whom I’d immediately recognized as the cbayer primitive.
She wasn’t Miss America, but then and again, neither had been my own mother of sacred memory, which scarcely hindered her in being an aesthetic person. She was about sixty, tall and thin, and obviously took care of herself. A preacher’s kid, she had good manners and grace, betraying that she hoped everybody’d get along, everybody’d do well.
She seemed a little ill at ease, because while she’d been all over in her chequered life and career, she’d never been here, and Nebraska’s sui generis, the only of its kind, nothing like it anywhere else in the world. But as with the elleng primitive, she radiated the notion that she was going to wait a while, look around, and then make up her mind.
- - - - - - - - - -
The second woman was a challenge, because I couldn’t stop staring.
It wasn’t her incredible bulk that surprised me--after all, I’ve seen blue-state country girls the size of barns before--but rather that she had a potato-sized protuberance jutting out of her chin.
Now yes, of course, it’s not nice to stare at bodily deformities, but because I’m deaf, I have to “read†faces, and even a slight anatomical anomaly can distract me from getting any “message†the person’s trying to convey.
If she’d just get that thing plastic-surgeryized off, I thought, maybe it’d give her better self-esteem, a desire to look better, and she’d drop some pounds, scores and scores of them. That unsightly protuberance was more of an obstacle to my understanding what she was saying to me, than her sheer size.
LynneSin seemed to be a nice person, a down-home country girl born and raised in rural Pennsylvania, and her manners were impeccable, but until I got used to that chin, there were going to be obstacles in communication.
I’d inevitably get used to it, after which everything would be strawberries-and-cream if she wanted things that way, but not right now; later.
- - - - - - - - - -
At seeing the third woman, I stopped in my tracks.
Whoa.
She was tall, svelte, light-skinned, dark hair, with long slender fingers, a pair that was exactly the right size for the rest of her, and with a nose slightly larger than “average.â€
I was awed, floored, by her utter pulchritude.
In addition, she oozed, seeped, Grace and Class out of every pore.
She introduced herself as the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive, but I wasn’t paying attention; all I was thinking about was ways and means of getting to hop around in the sack with her.
- - - - - - - - - -
Much to his misfortune, Romeo came after the women had left, and fired up the grill for supper.
Usually it’s the neighbor, the neighbor’s older brother, or the property caretaker who take such liberties, and so often, but since they’ve been away, Romeo’s been doing this. It’s okay, copacetic, cool, and all that, but if any of the others were still around, he wouldn’t.
I went to town to get supper, a $1.69 slice of pepperoni pizza at the convenience store, and got detoured “listening†to a local farmer describe the current trend in chicken-and-egg prices to me, and so I didn‘t get back here for nearly two hours.
When I did, however, Romeo and Skippy were sitting on the back porch, all chummy-chummy and getting uproariously drunk.
to be continued
-
Early Sunday morning, the business partner and I had some business to conduct near the town in the heart of the Sandhills, where I’d spent my adolescence. Done with that, we passed through the same place coming back home; given the day it was, the business partner thought I should do something.
I know that at times the business partner wishes I were “more conventional†in my behavior, thinking it’d make life easier for me, but there’s some things not worth taking the time and trouble to be “conventional.â€
We were headed out into a little-penetrated part of the Sandhills--because really, there’s nothing there--to check on the state of an abandoned cemetery. He’d been surprised, a few years ago, upon finding out I’d never gone to the graves of the parents, or other members of the family, after each one’s funeral.
“Look,†I tried getting away with explaining; “there’s the mortality of the human body, and the Immortality of the human soul. Once one’s dead, the body doesn’t matter any more; only the soul. One’s supposed to not care about any earthly remains soon to rot away, but instead about Immortal souls that’ve passed on to another sort of existence with God.
“I’m not dishonoring the parents, or any other members of my family, by not visiting their graves.
“However, I’d be dishonoring them considerably, by not constantly expressing my gratitude to God, for all that they gave me.â€
Such noble sentiments, however, have never swayed the business partner enough so that we omit going to a particular cemetery every time we’re near my old town.
- - - - - - - - - -
The abandoned cemetery’s far west of town, and is rarely visited, unlike the main cemetery south of town, with its curving lanes, cul-de-sacs, pavilions, benches, fountains, botanical gardens, and grass that’s always green, bushes and hedges that are always trimmed.
This particular cemetery is a recent one, its oldest graves being from November 1918. It’d been sent up in hurry by the panic-stricken citizenry, housing the victims of the influenza epidemic, whose numbers were overwhelming, and so one had to temporarily dispense with the usual funerary amenities, burying them as fast as they died.
After the epidemic, everybody forgot this isolated cemetery had been meant to be “temporary,†the bodies moved into regular cemeteries when more convenient, and it was used to inter bodies of children, the indigent, the unknown, and those not willing to pay the rates of the regular cemetery.
It was especially heavily populated during the dry dusty 1930s.
It used to be that people, whether they wanted to be or not, were interred here out of desperation; now it’s a case that one has to ask to be buried there, as my parents had. It still has two or three grave-diggings a year, one of the most recent being that of the wife of a prominent surgeon in a major metropolitan area.
- - - - - - - - - -
This time, however, I wasn’t so reluctant to go there.
There’s six members of my family buried there; the parents, two brothers, and two nieces (all the others are, quite naturally, interred in other cemeteries elsewhere). One of the two brothers there had been very popular in high school, and after he’d died in 1986 at the age of 40, his graduating class took to meeting at his gravesite during every reunion.
Since the weather’s usually good, they stand around in the darkness drinking beer and talking about him.
But I always thought it rather peculiar they did so by getting drunk around his gravestone, as this brother, like all members of the family excepting myself, never drank.
- - - - - - - - - -
His high-school graduating class had their 50th-year reunion over the 4th of July holiday, and when the bars closed for the night, they loaded eight cases of beer in the back of a pick-up truck, and with a long line of cars bearing forty survivors of that class (and their spouses, if any), drove out to the cemetery.
Again, I have to stress that this cemetery is way out in the middle of nowhere. Unlike the crowded congested blue states where there’s so much artificial light it’s still as bright as midnight as it’d been at noon, the Sandhills at night are totally, utterly black.
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Someone driving on the highway a mile south of the cemetery noticed something was going on, and contacted law-enforcement. Since it was obvious it was something “bigâ€â€¦..and in the middle of the night…..and in an abandoned cemetery, the state patrol, the county sheriff, and the local policemen responded.
They brought with them a couple of vehicles that had massive flood-lights, and stealthily surrounded the cemetery (it’s not very large), slowly driving by Braille getting close in the darkness without being detected.
Once in place, the flood-lights were snapped on, and by megaphone the party was ordered to “freeze,†to stay where they were at…..revealing a whole bunch of startled 68-year-old senior citizens boozing it up.
-
The road from the cemetery actually isn’t a road, but rather a rutted path over rough terrain that would challenge a lunar rover. Of the six burials I’ve attended there, only one took place in dry weather, but it as also 100+ degrees that day. All the others took place in December (four) and March (one), in knee-deep snow.
I no longer remember how vehicles maneuvered that road, getting to the burial site, other than that it seemed to take an awful long time, and that there was much use of tow-chains and snow shovels.
The business partner was driving a pick-up truck meant for re-sale, and had to be careful, going forward very slowly, like a person gingerly stepping forward an inch at a time, testing the footing.
The place teemed with wildlife; deer, antelope, rabbits running around to get away from us, and flocks of birds flying overhead. And this being the Sandhills, of course there were prairie dogs scampering under, and rattlesnakes slithering away, although we didn’t see any.
At night, coyotes rule the place.
The grass in the cemetery ranged from ankle-to-waist high, hiding many of the tombstones, but that didn’t matter. Given the socioeconomic status of most of the interees, if there had been gravestones at all, they were cheap ones, the names and dates long ago having been eroded off by the harsh Sandhills winters and summers.
I recognized the gravestone for the parents, sitting at the top of a gradual slope. The business partner walked around it, while I lit a cigarette and sat down on another gravestone, considerably weathered, WAYNE BAMGAARD, June 4, 1916-November 29, 1918.
I’m sure it pleased God long ago take little Wayne into Eternal Life, and so I didn’t consider it a sacrilege, or unrespectful, doing that.
“It’s tilting forward again,†the business partner said, referring to my parents‘ gravestone.
“I already knew that,†I said. “And in a few more years, it’ll fall flat on its face, and then over the next century or two, gradually be washed down the slope to the bottom.â€
The land on which the cemetery sits is highly unsuitable for such a use, the ground being fragile and always shifting. More money had been spent shoring up that gravestone, than on the gravestone itself, until I decided to call it quits about fifteen years ago, leaving nature to follow its natural course.
A big bullsnake, about as big around as my arm, meandered near the business partner’s feet, and he prodded it away. I got up to go look, but saw only the last half, as it disappeared into a hole. Then the two of us walked down the slope, to the grave-sites of the others.
The two brothers were buried under a tree, and while their gravestones remained upright, they were obviously sinking. This was the site of the famous parties taking place here every five years, and standing, there, for the first time I realized how conveniently visible it is, to the highway a mile south.
to be continued
-
‘Your two nieces out there,†the business partner said, “how come you talk about them so rarely?â€
Oh yes, I said, “of course I cared about them, but one died too young and the other became a primitive.
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“The first one, when still a newborn infant, was crushed to death in an automobile accident--this was before child-seat safety was invented, about two months after my father died.
“It affected her mother the rest of her life.
“Yes, yes, yes, it’s a terrible thing, a horrible thing, an almost unimaginable thing, for a mother to lose a child, and one wouldn’t wish it on anyone. The pain has to be incredible.
“However, her mother, a sister-in-law of mine, was a hippie, and had her own mind set about how to deal with the grief, the loss, the melancholy.
“Scorning God, she decided mood-altering drugs were the answer.
“Well, you know what happens. If one lets God take care of it, after the initial shock and grief, the sadness over time dissipates. It still shows up all the rest of one’s life--a mother after all can’t forget a child she bore--but only in short, fleeting moments of melancholy.
“She didn’t want that, though; she wanted instant relief, rather than giving the effects of the tragedy time to pass through and out of the system, like when one‘s had a bad dinner.
“Time and patience heals all.
“It bothered her the rest of her life, because pharmaceuticals wouldn’t let her sense of loss pass.
“And of course she needed more and more of them, as the years went on.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
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“The other one died at the age of 30, from a microscopic internal haemorrhage in which she gradually bled to death from a pin-point-sized leak at the end of her intestine. It runs in my family; it’s killed plenty.
“The tragedy is, although it’s nearly indecipherable, it is detectable, if one has a clear head.
“And someone on cocktails of pharmaceuticals does not have a clear, alert head.
“She’d gotten on drugs when she was a young teenager, just barely past a girl, to deal with the ‘pains’ of growing up female.
“Women can be idiots; never mind that just as with males, there’s certain pains to growing up, but they pass with time, if left alone.
“Women have no sense of fortitude--the only known exception being my mother, of course--and want ‘instant relief.’
“Her mother, a hippie, was heavily into pharmaceuticals at the time, especially the mood-altering ones, and daughter imitated mother.
“She also emulated her mother’s attitude, ‘oh, I can do whatever I want to do, and if something bad happens, the doctor and drugs’ll take care of it.’
“As far as she figured, she didn’t have to do a damned thing herself--like changing attitudes or life-style--she could just sit back, relax, and let physicians and drugs take care of it all.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
“The niece ‘married’ another hippie, a guy about the size and looks of Omaha Steve, in some sort of ‘wiccan’ ceremony up in the Black Hills of South Dakota.
“This guy was something else; besides being a slob and a primitive, he was as lazy as Hell.
“She worked to support the two of them, while he sat around home all day long, thinking of ways and means to get aboard the social security disability gravy train because he was ‘too depressed’ to work.
“They made some money going around to places buying, trading, and selling ‘beanie bag babies,’ or whatever they were; they were a ’hot commodity’ at the time.
“After she died, I saw him one more time, up here when he dropped out of the clear blue sky.
“At the time, he was still conspiring to get on the gravy-train, having failed thus far.
“We had an okay visit, I guess, uncle and big fat slob nephew-in-law, and I was pleasant with him, but he’d always seemed afraid of me, and still was.
“I dunno why he was afraid of me, because I’m a nice guy, one of the nicest guys one can ever hope to meet.â€
to be continued
-
When I got back home in late afternoon, I was elated to see the property caretaker was back from Iowa; delighted, ecstatic, joyful. His buxom schoolteacher wife was with him; they were going to the big city to pick up some things.
This means Romeo won’t hang around so much, like he’s been doing, while the caretaker, the neighbor, and the neighbor’s older brother, and their families have been out of town. As far as I’m concerned, I’d be perfectly content not seeing Romeo again until the party Friday night.
One can have too much of a person.
- - - - - - - - - -
After the caretaker got done welding something and he and his wife were getting ready to leave, a superluxury rented sedan pulled up into the yard, out from which emerged four people.
Aha. The last but two of the primitive she-women coming for Big Mo’s anti-men get-together.
They’d stopped at the house because that’s what they’d been told to do, as directions to Big Mo’s camp were too complicated, and best that they get those in person.
But with four, there was one extra, on whom I hadn’t counted.
She introduced herself as the passionate primitive, the Sarah Ibarruri primitive from Florida, where she’s still living despite her promise back in the autumn of 2004 that if George Bush were re-elected, she was leaving the country.
Perhaps she misplaced her airplane ticket, and is still looking for it.
She was “average,†although she probably would’ve looked better if she radiated some pleasantness; silent negativity radiated out of her. I decided some positive vibrations might do her some good, but she wasn’t going to get any from me; some jobs are just too big to handle.
At that moment, Romeo, who’d been drinking all afternoon with Skippy on the back porch, came out front.
Pointing to the Sarah Ibarruri primitive, Romeo indicated to me, “That one’s mine; I can do her some good. I can give Ms. Sourass thrills enough she‘ll still be in Happyland even after she goes back home.â€
I looked at him as if he were Bozo from Outer Space.
He shrugged. “Sometimes women are too easy, and one wants a challenge. That one‘s mine.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
The second was the smallest woman, by far, to show up for Big Mo’s shindig, slight in build and frail.
It was the Aerows primitive from Mississippi, the raccoon-bitten primitive, and I wasn’t sure why she was here, because she’s a womanizer. Preferring women anyway, she couldn’t possibly have any feelings, warm or hostile, about men.
But what was most marked about her was her sheer timidity. Nebraska was new to her, and franksolich too, but one got the impression she was afraid of everything, everybody, she met, even if she’d been around there, or them, before. This was a primitive woman perpetually nervous, fearful.
- - - - - - - - - - -
The third was Wills, the William769 primitive, from Florida, apparently. I was shocked when I saw him.
People afflicted with AIDS aren’t generally to be found around here, and while one has a general idea what it does, one really has to actually see it, to believe it.
Such are the wages of unrestrained bacchanalian decadence, one supposes…..
One can’t control one’s feelings, but one can control one’s conduct.
So while Wills was getting some sympathy from me for his condition, he wasn’t getting as much as he probably thought he warranted.
I decided I’d hide the framed photograph of Vladimir Putin that sits on the table by the computer, so as to not offend, but that was as far as I’d go.
- - - - - - - - - - -
The fourth one, who’d driven the luxury car, was an old woman wearing a big floppy hat, and loud and brassy enough even a deaf person could easily understand her.
flyarm had been at one time a principal acolyte of the late red round one, at whose Streisandian digs in New Jersey he’d stayed when he was alleged to be in a hospital down in Maryland.
But that was now a long time ago; and even if she knew I was franksolich, flyarm’d love me anyway, being the sort of person she is.
Although now on Easy Street, with palatial luxury homes in both New Jersey and Florida, flyarm was no stranger to Deprivation and Want. True, she’d met and married a rich guy, but before then, she’d been a working girl, an airline stewardess…..back when airplanes still had propellers.
She enthusiastically hugged me, and I promised I’d show her a good time.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Well, that’s it, all but two,†I said to the neighbor’s wife when she and her husband dropped by to let me know they’d gotten back. As Romeo and Skippy were still sloshing on the back porch as if they’d been pals since forever, we sat on the front porch.
“CaliforniaPeggy and the NJCher primitive arrive tomorrow, but as far as I know, they’ll go straight to the hotel in [the big city] rather than coming out here.
“CaliforniaPeggy’s probably going to be okay, but I have the feeling Ms. Vanderbilt-Astor’s going to need her decolletage shaken up, rattled, so that she gets a more-realistic idea of who and what she is; she’s got a great deal about which to be modest or even ashamed, and as she’s growing older every day, the sooner she learns, the better for her.â€
to be continued
-
Recalling from one of her photographs, Sarah Imaboobi had a mustache that would rival that of Groucho Marx.
Maybe while in the Sandhills she can get a shave.
-
Recalling from one of her photographs, Sarah Imaboobi had a mustache that would rival that of Groucho Marx.
Maybe while in the Sandhills she can get a shave.
But based upon another self-posted photograph of herself, she's such a sourass that the mustache in the one you saw probably improved her looks. She's just, really, a negative person.
-
When I got up this morning--rather late, so I had to hurry and get dressed--and stepped out on the back porch, I noticed Romeo and Skippy had left a mess there, empty beer cans piled up on the table, or laying on the floor.
I arched my eyebrows; people leaving a mess here is something that hasn’t ever happened.
I was hoping to not see Romeo until Friday, but made a mental note to talk with him if I saw him before then; it’s not a good idea to emulate primitive habits. This was obviously something Skippy did, and then he imitated.
- - - - - - - - - -
Looking to the southwest, at the grove of walnut trees near the bend of the river, separating this property from Meyer and Alberto’s, I spied a solitary figure walking around, a light shawl draped over her shoulders.
Taking the telescope mounted on the railing of the back porch, I turned it that direction, and saw that it was the husband-hating elleng primitive. As she looked as if she were merely walking around, examining the various phenomenons around her, rather than walking around just to be alone, I left and went to get better acquainted with her.
The elleng primitive had struck me as a shy person, and so I had to be careful; I didn’t want to intimidate.
“These trees,†she said, when I approached and she recognized me; “they aren’t native here, and they’re so evenly-spaced they had to have been planted.â€
Uh huh, I replied; “they were planted out here in 1886, eleven years after this place was first settled, and they’re all still here, all sixty of them, planted ten trees by six rows.
“Some fast-talking snake-oil salesman from Michigan had convinced the family, who wasn’t especially interested in planting more trees--as God knows, there’s plenty of trees around here, the place is choking with trees--that Michigan walnuts were a hot commodity on the market. He thought he was going to get by selling only half a dozen, or a dozen, saplings, but he was such a sharp talker they bought all he had.
“They’re more than a century and a quarter old, but they don’t look like they’ve ever been happy here.â€
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“The weather in Michigan can be rougher than it gets here, and so in theory walnut trees should be able to take our winters too. Well, obviously they do, but they just don’t seem very happy here.â€
“I’m surprised at the number of trees you have,†the elleng primitive said. “I’d heard Nebraska has no trees.â€
“A damnedable lie, madam; Nebraska’s got plenty of trees, probably more trees than what Ohio has.
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“Don’t believe everything you’ve heard…..or seen.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
“You see,†I said, “we’ve always had a problem here, with outsiders coming from the east, telling us all sorts of things we need to do, to make Nebraska more aesthetic.
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“Near where I spent my adolescence in the heart of the Sandhills, there’s the largest man-made forest in the world, put there about a hundred years ago by some professor from New York who thought we needed more trees.
“It’s true there hadn’t been any trees where he ended up putting some, but hey, there was a reason there weren’t any trees there; God and nature had made that land for something else, that didn’t require trees.
“They not only made the land for something else, but they also made it hostile to trees.
“That, the largest man-made forest in the world, burns down about every thirty years, from a naturally-occurring fire, causing the overburdened taxpayers a great deal of expense to replant it, so as to suit the egos and tastes of easterners.
“I think it would be fitting, on every Arbor Day, to burn in effigy, the guy who put trees there.â€
to be continued
-
I was outdoors this afternoon, in the yard on the south side of the house, switching the shoe-laces in my shoes, when an apparition, given away by its shadow falling over me, suddenly appeared out of nowhere.
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I got up; it was the raccoon-bitten Aerows primitive, the reedy-thin primitive woman who prefers other women, from Mississippi. She’d struck me as being extraordinarily shy, shyer than even the husband-hating elleng primitive, and it startled me that she was brave enough to approach me so closely.
“I’m looking to be sure there aren’t any raccoons around here,†she told me.
“You assured us there aren’t any raccoons.â€
Well, I said, “I’ve lived here nine years, and I’ve never seen a raccoon.
“There’s all sorts of wildlife around here but no raccoons, sorry.â€
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“What about snakes? The NJCher primitive and Skippy say there’s snakes around here.â€
Well, I said, “I’ve lived here nine years, and I’ve never seen a snake.â€
“But the internet also says Nebraska has raccoons and snakes, sometimes poisonous ones.â€
Maybe, I said; “I was born and raised in Nebraska, and I’ve never seen a rattlesnake. A live one, I mean.
“When I was a teenager, my best friend and I used to spend summer afternoons swimming in the Dismal River--the river’s nowhere near here, it’s out in the middle of the Sandhills--and we got yelled at a lot about it, because the place was infested with rattlesnakes.
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“Lots of people, usually outsiders, ignoring warnings to stay away from there, ventured in there anyway, getting bitten. Just because something looks ’pretty,’ doesn’t mean it’s safe.
“Other friends of mine, who knew the Sandhills even better than we did, stayed away from the Dismal River, preferring instead to swim in the North Loup, the Middle Loup, and the South Loup Rivers, no matter how many times I pointed out that the terrain being so similar, there had to be rattlesnakes there too.
“Anyway, you’ve probably seen rattlesnakes down in Mississippi and other parts of the south; they grow much much bigger down there and back east, than they apparently do here.
“Ours are small, almost tiny--I’m telling you only what I’ve been told, because I’ve never seen it with my own eyes.
“It’s because we have prairie dogs and bullsnakes around here, both of which are predators of rattlesnakes--they eat them right up, as if strawberries-and-cream--and so rattlesnakes tend to not live long enough to grow big.
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“I imagine it’s the same with raccoons and coyotes.
“I’ve seen coyotes; sometimes the cats get into fights with them.
“There’s plenty of prairie dogs and coyotes around here, so I think it’s reasonable to assume there’s not many, if any, raccoons or rattlesnakes.
“The NJCher primitive and Skippy are full of it.â€
to be continued
-
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-
“You really need to be more careful about what you tell them,†the business partner said when he was here Monday evening. “Being primitives, they’re probably not paying attention to the finer details.â€
Oh now, I said; “I haven’t said there’s no snakes out here; I’ve said that I’ve never seen any snakes out here myself.
“If they can’t see the distinction, there’s a problem here--why are such people even allowed to vote, if they don’t pay attention to details?
“And besides, there aren’t any snakes out here; I’ve lived here nine years, and I’ve never seen one.
“And since I live here, I’m out here more often than anybody else.â€
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We were sitting on the front porch, for two reasons. I wanted to catch sight of the carnies coming to camp--that road runs in front of the front yard, behind the William Rivers Pitt--so I’d know they were here, and Romeo and Skippy were once again boozing it up on the back porch, as if they’d been pals since forever.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Well, you forget,†the business partner said; “a lot of times, you aren’t paying attention.
“I have no doubt a big old snake’s slithered right in between your feet, and you didn’t notice.â€
He was of course subtly taunting my talents of perception, referring to the time I was 14 years old, and my younger brother 12, and a rattlesnake followed me as we were playing golf. I don’t care to play golf, but if I owe someone a favor, I will, although I really hope to get out of it.
My younger brother, concerned because I seemed to be doing something to get it all hot and excited, landed the head of his club squarely on its head, instantly killing it (my younger brother was good at “targetingâ€). I turned around, surprised; I hadn’t even been aware of its existence.
Something similar happened a second time, too--although not on a golf course--a couple of years after that, after which I attained the unfortunate reputation of “not paying attention.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
The business partner, changing the subject, inquired about Big Mo’s girls.
The final two, CaliforniaPeggy and the NJCher primitive, were scheduled to come in this very evening, I said, excepting that they’ll go to quarters in [the big city] rather than coming out here.
“I dunno what the others do down there. They of course spend the night in that luxury hotel in [the big city], but they hung around here all day. I don’t want to interfere, but it seems from a distance, they sit around chanting anti-men slogans and doing some rituals suggestive of being anti-men.â€
to be continued
-
In the morning, after getting here from their digs in the big city, the cbayer primitive, CaliforniaPeggy, and the great-aunt from Chicago drove here, as they wanted to check out “farmers’ markets,†and sought guidance.
That’s what the neighbor’s wife is for, I thought, but being a gentleman, I decided to take them myself.
This was the first time I’d met CaliforniaPeggy who, although she didn’t seem too confident about me, remembered her good breeding and manners, and complimented the fine Nebraska scenery. She also illuminated me that once she gets back home, she’ll probably write a poem about the Sandhills.
- - - - - - - - - -
On the way out into the hinterlands, we were oftentimes interrupted by birds
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I don’t care much for birds--when the bald eagles are here, usually in July, I have to keep a stash of frisbees on both porches to fling at them, scaring them away, if they get too close to the cats. I’m not sure if bald eagles capture and eat felines, but if one doesn’t know, best to be careful.
Big, dirty, nasty, grouchy birds, bald eagles, when one sees them up close.
Birds seemed of particular interest to the cbayer primitive, whose eccentric English husband is obsessed with the idea that the thought-extinct passenger pigeons in fact still do exist, a phenomenon that hasn’t been noted because they’re out here in this remote, isolated area where nobody goes.
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This had been a wet spring--after a rough, arduous winter--and all was green, and remains so into late summer.
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- - - - - - - - - - -
We reached my favorite “farmer’s market,†a big stand out in the middle of nowhere, heaped high with locally-grown vegetables and fruits; not stuff shipped up from Florida, such as one finds in “farmers’ markets†in New England.
This was the same place I’d taken BainsBane, when she was here.
“There’s nobody here,†the cbayer primitive said.
“They all work during the day,†I explained; “and so they can’t sit around here and wait on people. It’s wholly self-service.â€
The bins and shelves were piled high with peach-sized strawberries, ears of sweet corn, apples, carrots, still-podded peas, beans, asparagus, broccoli, cranberries, blueberries, cabbages, peaches, pears, onions, radishes, cucumbers, tomatoes, whatever else grows here.
The cbayer primitive passed on the tomatoes, though; “the ones on that small hill in front of your house look better,†she said.
I said nothing; she has no idea, no idea at all, that the tomatoes there are descendants of tomatoes that once passed through the intestinal channels of long-ago pigs, the seeds still undigested.
Which is why, when I want tomatoes, I buy them at the grocery store in town; more sanitary.
She was disappointed however that there was no kale.
“The kale, I sorry,†I replied, “has to be gotten at the supermarket in [the big city]; it’s not locally grown around here. Our kale comes from Australia, why, I don’t know.â€
Unlike when BainsBane had been here, this time there were big piles of watermelons and pumpkins, finally ripened enough for sale. CaliforniaPeggy was kind enough to observe, “they make Texas watermelons look like walnuts.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
We collected eight bushel-sized boxes of vegetables and fruits, nearly all of it for Big Mo’s camp, as I already had plenty of this stuff at my place.
There’s going to be a cookout in the back yard--if Skippy and Romeo aren’t there, getting sauced--or in the front yard--if Skippy and Romeo are in the back--tomorrow evening, Wednesday, as it’ll be the first day of the county fair.
The county fair’s just five miles straight down the road from the William Rivers Pitt, and nobody likes to stay home and cook when the county fair’s going on; they’d rather go out and dine.
- - - - - - - - - -
The tab came to $86 for all of it, and being a gentleman, I pulled five $20 bills out.
“But how are you going to pay?†the great-aunt asked. “There’s nobody here to collect.â€
Here, I said, indicating a coffee can. “One totals up one’s bill and puts the money in here. Like I said, self-service. And then when the people who have this place get home from work in the evening, they come out to re-stock everything and pick up the money that’s been left.â€
The great-aunt arched her eyebrows.
“This isn’t Illinois,†I reminded her, “where everybody steals. You’re in red America now.â€
I opened the can. There were lots of personal checks, twenties, tens, and fives in there, plus a couple of hundreds and three fifties.
But only a scant three $1 bills, and I needed four, for change.
“Let’s just get another dollar’s worth of something, and then we’ll be even,†I said, taking the three singles.
to be continued
-
When I got up in the morning about 5:00 a.m., since Big Mo & Co. were spending nights in the fancy hotel in the big city, there wasn’t any need to get dressed before going out onto the back porch to marvel at the Sandhills morning scenery.
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When looking through the telescope mounted on a railing of the back porch, at Big Mo’s camp-site, I saw two figures inspecting the miniature Swiss Alpine chalet, in which was set the Clivus Multrum. They were the carnies Gerta, the heavy-set heavily-tattooed chain-smoking overly-mascara’d woman, who apparently served as cook for the carnies, and the handkerchiefless one, the old guy with short white hair that stood straight up, a bug-eye, considerable carbuncles, whose nose perpetually ran.
If such snooping had happened a few days ago, I would’ve gotten all upset and bent out of shape, the carnies discovering the existence of the she-women, but no longer. It still stung, Big Mo’s she-women, under the manipulative genius of Ms. Vanderbilt-Astor, the uppity NJCher primitive, accepting only part, and not all, of my hospitality, when there’s plenty around who’d be more than happy to actually camp here rather than using it only for a day-time meeting place to commune with nature.
Now, I no longer cared; let the carnies discover them, and let whatever’s going to happen, happen.
- - - - - - - - - -
The neighbor’s wife came here about mid-morning, to drop off some things for tonight’s cookout; she really enjoys such activities, because it keeps her own kitchen clean.
She was then going to the big city, to meet Big Mo’s crowd and take them, as I’d suggested, to a fabric shoppe, so the blue state she-women would get an idea of how life was in the old days, when people had to make their own clothes. I didn’t expect they’d buy anything, this being simply in the nature of a museum field-trip.
She hadn’t met any of them yet, and inquired of my opinions of them so far.
“Well, Big Mo’s okay, laid-back and accepting of anything and anybody. You’ll have no problems with her.
“CaliforniaPeggy, the cbayer primitive, the husband-hating elleng primitive, and flyarm might, or might not, enjoy it, but they’ll have enough class and manners to be positive about it.
“Skippy got uproariously drunk last night with Romeo, and probably has a hangover, so won’t go; you won’t have to worry about pleasing him.
“The great-aunt’s an odd case; in some ways she’s the traditional 1940s woman, and’s an old maid to boot, so in theory it should be of some interest to her, but she’s also a hardened, hard-core, iron-clad icy-cold holder-of-grudges, so one can’t tell.
“The raccoon-bitten Aerows primitive probably won’t like it, but I’m not sure if her southern breeding can overcome her primitivity. She might be nice enough to lie and say she enjoyed it, she might not.
“Wills, the William769 primitive, I dunno. Maybe he’s into fairy costumes and such, and might find it interesting.
“One of the two you’ll have to watch out for is the Sarah Ibarruri primitive; she’s such a totally negative person about everything, always a downer. She probably wouldn’t even enjoy Disneyland if one took her.
“Romeo swears he’s going to take her on another sort of trip, but I dunno; because of her sourass attitude, she might be too big of a job for even Romeo to woo and romance.
“The biggest problem’ll be Ms. Vanderbilt-Astor, the NJCher primitive; I haven’t met her yet, but she’s quite a piece of work, what with all of her effete elitist eastern attitudes and smugness.
“Someone’s going to have to put her in her place, bring her nose back down to earth, and I got the uneasy premonition it’s going to have to be me.
“But anyway,†I concluded, “try to have at least a reasonable time, and look at it as a dress-rehearsal for when you take them to the Ladies’ Altar Society soup-and-salad lunch and bake-sale on Friday.â€
to be continued
-
The wife of the property caretaker came by shortly after noon, to drop off things for the big cookout here tonight.
There was a salad there, with strange-looking lettuce in it; it had purple in addition to the usual green.
“Kale,†she reminded me; “in case the cbayer primitive shows up.â€
This is mostly a cookout for locals to celebrate the opening of the county fair, but I’d invited Big Mo’s crowd too, if they wished to come.
I nibbled a piece.
“It tastes just like the ordinary run-of-the-mill standard green cabbage to me,†I said; “okay, but not anything I‘d cross the street for. I wonder what the purple does to it.â€
“It adds color, nothing more,†the wife of the property caretaker said. “And one pays for it, too; it costs nearly twice as much as regular green cabbage, because it comes all the way from Australia.â€
She also brought over a couple of other salads with peas in them.
I looked.
“Yikes,†I said; “you used canned peas, not fresh peas. Why the Hell why?â€
“Well, from reading the cooking and baking forum on Skins’s island, it looks as if the primitives prefer canned vegetables to fresh ones, although I don’t know why.â€
I don’t know why either, I replied; “if fresh peas aren’t available, better to simply go without than to use canned ones, which are nothing more than glop and gorp, like other canned vegetables and fruits.â€
“I also made the NJCher’s soup, in case she shows, but don’t worry; I won’t take the lid off to show you.â€
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“Yikes,†I said again; “when Ms. Vanderbilt-Astor first posted a photograph of it--she was so proud of it she even took a picture of it--the first thing that came to my mind was that someone had a really bad case of diarrhea, and forgot to flush.
“Ew.
“Maybe it’s actually good, but looks are part of cooking; one doesn’t want food to look like runny shit.
“And Ms. High-and-Mighty Vanderbilt-Astor was so proud of it.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
“Well, given that everybody else is bringing things to please us, I decided to cater to the tastes of Big Mo’s crowd, in case they come. If they don’t show, or if it doesn’t get eaten, we could toss it into one of the gardens here, to help fertilize the soil.â€
None of the gardens here really need any more help getting fertile, as I toss all unwanted food in them, to rot and decay, but it beats trying to coerce the cats into eating it. Cats as a general rule don’t care much for canned vegetables and fruits anyway.
- - - - - - - - - -
A little bit later, Romeo stopped by. He works for the largest cattleman in the county, whose properties are scattered all over, and so it’s never been unusual for him to be in this area, and coming in for a beer and a few minutes of chitchattery.
What’s been unusual is that lately, he’s been coming in for lots of beers and hanging around for the longest time. And if Skippy’s around, the two of them might as well spend the whole night here.
“I have an idea,†he said.
“You know, you’re uncomfortable with the idea of only the two of us with three women, the Italianate, the Greek, and the Argentine, who’re coming from Omaha Friday evening.
“I think the two of us can handle all three, but you don’t, being a one-woman man.
“How about we have Skippy join us in the party, to make it three-and-three?â€
to be continued
-
I was left speechless--besides outraged--at Romeo’s idea, and motioned for him to leave.
“Okay, okay,†he said; “we’ll talk about it later.â€
Yeah, sure, I thought; we’re not going to talk about it at all.
- - - - - - - - - - -
The neighbor’s wife got here about 5:00, in time to help set up things for this evening’s cookout, which should start about the time the others trickle in from the first day of the county fair, maybe about 8:00.
“It went okay. I guess,†she sighed; “but the owner of the fabric shop has you on his enemies’ list.
“It was like a bunch of barbarians coming across a lost tomb of an ancient pharoah; they had no idea, no idea at all, that such a thing as a fabric shoppe even existed, and in their excitement at looking at things, unrolled most of the bolts of cloth and disarranged the paper patterns.
“Even Big Mo was so fascinated she forgot her manners, but at least the cbayer primitive and CaliforniaPeggy retained theirs. Barely, though.
“They all went excepting Skippy, who was feeling under the weather.
“The NJCher primitive came with us, but in the parking lot even before we went in the door, changed her mind and drove back to the hotel.
“She spends all of her time there being pampered like a queen, and when not being pampered, sits around the swimming pool trying to pick up men.
“I don’t think she’s ever going to come out here, but no great loss; she’s a real piece of work.â€
Well, the neighbor’s wife still has two more chances, I pointed out to her. “There’s the community-wide garage sales on Thursday, and the Ladies’ Altar Society soup-and-salad lunch and bake-sale on Friday.
“I dunno what’s up for Saturday, their last full day here; I haven’t thought beyond Friday night yet.â€
Oh, the neighbor’s wife said; “is there something you’re doing Friday night?â€
- - - - - - - - - -
Fortunately, I didn’t have to answer the question, because at that moment the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive walked into the kitchen from the back porch, inquiring if she could help.
Now, of all of the primitive she-women currently here, cali’s the only one who arouses the carnal senses in me, being so much my idea of the perfect-looking woman. I rather more admire women for their brains than for their looks; I make an exception for cali.
Never in my life had I ever felt such a passion for the mere body and flesh of a woman, until I’d been introduced to cali three days ago. I wanted to have that woman; hold her, possess her, poke her.
But ‘tis never to be, as my manly powers of restraint are stronger than my manly lusts.
So I was simply cordial to her, although man, I ached…..
- - - - - - - - - - -
The neighbor’s wife and I had a discussion about the place for the cookout. Usually they’re held in the back yard, where the scenery’s more aesthetic, but I decided we’d have to have it in the front yard, under the looming eyes of the William Rivers Pitt and all the parked vehicles.
“Romeo and Skippy’ll be here, and they’ll monopolize the back porch. The front porch is smaller, more cramped, and the view’s not so good, but it’ll do. We’ll just keep the front door wide open so people can come into the dining room or kitchen to get what they need with their suppers.â€
While cali and I were laying out tablecloths on the ancient picnic tables--hand-built of oak, circa 1922, and heavy as lead--she commented upon the flowers.
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“Oh, it’s wholly natural,†I assured her. “I don’t do a thing for them; they just naturally spring up out of the ground every year, and since they look aesthetic enough as they are, I just leave them alone, don’t do a thing to, or for, them.
“I grew up with gardening; one can endure too much of something, and so once I became an adult, I decided I didn’t have to bother with it any more. If one needs vegetables, they’re cheap at the grocery store, and cleaner too. If one needs flowers, they can be gotten at the floristry.
“I don’t even know what kind of flowers these are, just as I can’t tell you what kinds of vegetables grow in those gardens, other than the obvious ones. Like the flowers, the vegetables go to seed, die, rot, hibernate all winter, and in spring come back to life.
“Nearly all this stuff--and none of it by me, I assure you--was originally planted here by the woman who occupied this place from the time she was born in 1884, until six months before she died in 1986. She’d had a very hard, bitter life with few rewards, and was actually blind the last thirty of them, but obviously she found gardening an outlet for ameliorating her disappointments.
“After she went blind, she still weeded by hand, by Braille.â€
to be continued
-
While everybody, including some of Big Mo’s crowd--not all of them came, but most of them did--was eating at any one of the five ancient picnic tables in the front yard, the great-aunt sat in between myself and the business partner.
I was spending most of my time talking and “listening†to CaliforniaPeggy who sat across the table, and who waxed greatly about the scenic wonders of the Sandhills, quoting to me possible opening lines for a poem she wished to compose about them.
And so I caught none of the conversation between the great-aunt and the business partner, but noticed the great-aunt was slowly shifting closer and closer to me, so as to distance herself from the business partner.
He was probably playing the role of franksolich, and so well that it scared the old biddy, who at the end was practically sitting on my lap.
Skippy hadn’t showed up yet, and so Romeo was wooing and courting the Sarah Ibarruri primitive on the swinging bench on the front porch.
- - - - - - - - - -
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Since we finished before anybody else did, the neighbor’s older brother, cali, LynneSin, and I dabbled in croquet on the yard that faces north. I dunno why LynneSin got done so quickly, other than that she was already chowing down before most of the company arrived, and so perhaps was sated. At least for the moment.
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LynneSin was a pain with whom to communicate--and not because of the potato-sized protuberance on the end of her chin, which I by then had gotten used to, but rather because of a lack of subject matter about which we were both familiar.
She’s a product of rural Pennsylvania--although she now lives in Delaware, taking up three-fifths of that whole state--and radiates the impression of being a “down home†“country girl,†but man, she knew nothing, nothing at all, about things such as recipes, cooking, sewing, quilting, horse-riding, pitching hay, ice-skating, house-cleaning, laundry and ironing, &c., &c., &c.
It appeared that I, a guy, knew more about such womanly things than she did.
Things she seemed to know about--rock stars famous during the 1970s but pretty much forgotten now, for example--were beyond the pale for me. And she seemed to be an inveterate reader of teen fan mags such as Tiger Beat and television celebrity gossip.
A big overgrown girl, destined to be that way forever.
- - - - - - - - - -
Skippy finally showed, in time enough to get some food that was still cooking, but first headed to one of the three ancient refrigerators in the garage, to get some liquid refreshment to have with.
Romeo, having obtained some sort of agreement with the sourassed Sarah Ibarruri primitive, deserted her and came up to me.
“Skippy wants to talk to you,†he said; “and I think you should. Skippy’s a nice guy, willing to help us out at the party Friday night. I figure I could do the Italianate, you already want the Argentine, and so Skippy can take the Greek.â€
No way, I said; “I don’t want to talk to Skippy, and I’ll invite him to our party when pigs fly.â€
to be continued
-
Romeo left with the Sarah Ibarruri primitive, probably going to his “sex palace†on the other side of the county, abandoning Skippy on the back porch. However, as the menfolk, finished with supper, moved back there to imbibe, he at least had company.
They were indifferent about Skippy; he was just another human body doing the same thing they were, getting drunk. They accepted him, not knowing him that well, especially that his hero is Bill “25 Million Dead†Ayers, or that he once called for the extermination of those opposed to Obamacare.
To me, that’s not his greatest sin; to me, the worst is that some time in the past--maybe when Skippy was in college nearly forty years ago--he’d surrendered his brain to someone else, either a woman who star-struck him, or a charismatic “international student†in college.
His thoughts aren’t his own; he’s just a parrot, a puppet, for someone else.
- - - - - - - - - -
Wills, the William769 primitive, came in late, as the womenfolk were clearing up things, but as he hadn’t eaten yet, being a nice guy, I consented to dine again, so he’d have company. Wills took a three-quarter-pound sirloin steak to grill; I reached into the refrigerator and grabbed a two-weeks-old already-cooked hamburger, left over from an earlier cookout, and warmed that up.
He preferred his food nearly raw. I put blue cheese salad dressing on the top half of the bun, and sour cream on the bottom half, and slipped my hamburger in between.
Since darkness was slowly falling, I suggested we dine inside, at the elongated dining room table in the dining room, the front room of this house. The table’s made to seat sixteen, seven on each side and one on each end. It’s one of those ancient heavy mahogany or oak tables sold by Montgomery Ward & Co. during the 1920s, and still has all its original chairs, too.
Since the table was mostly occupied by offerings of food that hadn’t been taken away yet, Wills sat at one end, and nearly twenty feet away, I sat at the other end, as we talked.
I was secretly glad I’d remembered to put away the framed photograph of Vladimir Putin that usually sits on the table next to this computer, because Wills, afflicted with a terrible ailment, didn’t look as if he needed any more subtle teasing.
The only comfort one could derive from his situation is that it’s always better to pay for one’s sins in this life, than in the next, and Wills was, obviously, paying in full. Not for what he was--one can’t help being what one is--but rather for how he’d behaved, conducted himself, having been so careless and promiscuous and hedonistic.
Wills when a child and teenager, had once read a large set of encyclopedias all the way though, and so I’d assumed there’d be broad range of topics about which to talk. But alas, it soon became obvious that only the “P†volume had left any impression on him.
- - - - - - - - - -
I was rescued by the sudden appearance of Big Mo, who came in all upset and bent out of shape.
“Three of my chickens, including my favorite, ‘Blackie,’ are missing.â€
Alarmed, I got up and collected the property caretaker, who was out on the back porch, and we drove down to Big Mo’s campsite on the river, to check things out.
After a thorough examination, the caretaker said, “it’s all good, tight and secure, nothing broken so any chickens could get out. I’m guessing someone opened something, swiped three of them, and closed it again.â€
Well, there’s nothing that can be done about it, I said. “Big Mo’s just going to have to write them off as one of the costs associated with taking risks, in this case bring them out here, far from home.
“It’s too bad, but when one takes risks with things, sometimes one loses.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
Since we were already out, and since the caretaker didn’t need getting drunk anyway, I suggested we take a drive to inspect Meyer and Alberto’s land. The carnies were of course working the county fair, whose lights could be seen in the distance, but it’d be a good chance to be sure everything was okay there.
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Not all the carnies were absent, though. The overly-stout, overly-tattooed, overly-mascara’d chain-smoking Gerta, the carnies’ cook, was stirring something in a big kettle hanging over a campfire, when we arrived.
“Oh,†she said, delighted; “It’s not quite done yet, and nobody’ll be around to taste it until the middle of the night, but you want to try some? I’m making chicken stew.â€
to be continued
-
“I think Big Mo’s lost it,“ the neighbor’s wife told me this afternoon.
“This morning, she noticed there were four more chickens missing.
“And so when I took them to the garage sales, she found and bought an antique Gatling gun, an ancient Lee-Enfield rifle, a big Nock volley gun, a goose gun, and an old Browning automatic rifle.
“She said she’s going to situate them at the campsite and stand guard.â€
Well, I said; “it serves her right. If they hadn’t listened to Ms. Vanderbilt-Astor, and accepted only part of my hospitality, they would’ve been there, camping, serving to deter chicken thieves.
“But n-o-o-o-o-o; they had to listen to Ms. High-and-Mighty, and be in that fancy hotel instead of camping right about the same time chicken thieves were afoot.â€
Not all of Big Mo’s company had gone to the garage sales; the Sarah Ibarruri primitive was absent, probably still hanging with Romeo, the NJCher primitive had insisted upon staying at the hotel to be pampered, and Skippy had been indisposed.
“How’d the sale go?†I asked her. “Did the stuff from when hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer and hippyhubby Wild Bill were here, sell?â€
Oh, that stuff was about the first to go, she said.
“That was good stuff,†I said; “and all of it nearly new too, probably having been shoplifted from camping-goods and sporting-goods stores on the way up here from northeastern Oklahoma. First-rate stuff.â€
“Well, the old boat and that hand-made trailer were gone too, when we were there,†she said.
“And the cadaver carvers, although she was afraid she may’ve priced them too high. But she got the posted price for all of them.
“When we left, the only part of those goods still unsold were hippywife’s white cotton underdrawers with the 56†waistline; there just weren’t any women coming to the sale fat enough to have to wear them.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
The neighbor’s wife had brought me four rhubarb pies gotten at the same sale, which I slipped into the freezer of the refrigerator, they being my private stock.
“You know,†the neighbor’s wife said, “everybody’s wondering what’s up with the Sarah Ibarruri primitive; she never got back to the hotel last night.â€
“She took off with Romeo before everybody was done dining last evening,†I said, “before Wills got here, and before Big Mo discovered the first instance of chicken-heisting.
“I figure he would’ve dumped her by now, given that it’s already Thursday afternoon.
“But on the other hand, I haven’t seen Romeo either.â€
to be continued
-
On Friday morning, the neighbor, the business partner, and I were having breakfast on the back porch, leftovers from the cookout. As far as we knew, the Sarah Ibarruri primitive was still absent from the rest of Big Mo’s crowd, and no one had seen Romeo excepting at work, where he was unusually quiet.
“I hope it clears up pretty quickly,†I said; “as Romeo and I had some plans for tonight.â€
The other two, eating, made no comment.
We all however kept looking towards Big Mo’s campsite down by the river. Big Mo herself was visible, sitting cross-legged on the roof of the miniature “house boat†that the property caretaker had built to keep her chickens, the Gatling gun mounted in front of her, ready to swivel any direction chicken-thieves appeared.
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But as there were two of the rented cars down there, we assumed some others of her party had spent the night here too.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Any late news from the other edge of the state?†the neighbor asked me.
No, I said; even though he’s reduced down to 85 pounds and has been ’out of it’ for months, he stubbornly hangs on. “It reminds me of our maternal grandmother, who did that for nine months--although she was simply a case of long-time senility and old age, in which pharmaceutical overuse wasn’t any factor.â€
“Is he on life-support? I thought that when someone was hospiced, they took all that off,†the business partner said.
“He was never on any life-support mechanisms,†I said. “Some drugs were given intravenously, but no, he’s never needed anything to help with basic life-supporting functions; he for example breathes on his own.
“He’s just laying there, and when awake, in his senility curses and rants against God.
“Far better if he’d curse and rant against his false gods of science, medicine, and technology, which not only failed to keep him young, but are failing to keep him alive.
“Science, medicine, and technology have their uses, and I’m all for them, but they’re not God.â€
to be continued
-
The femme came here for lunch, about noon, during which time we supped on more leftovers from the cookout two evenings before, when Romeo and the Sarah Ibarruri primitive had taken off.
The Sarah Ibarruri primitive’s not been seen since. Romeo has showed up for work both days, but never broached the subject, probably because only Big Mo’s crowd and a few of mine are the only ones aware of the absence…..if even aware of the existence of the Sarah Ibarruri primitive.
I was getting concerned, because here it was Friday noon, and Romeo and I had a commitment with three women from Omaha in the evening. It entailed his having to drive down there to get them, and I myself had no way of contacting them; didn’t even know their names.
Romeo had shut off his cellular telephone, so I had no way of contacting him either.
- - - - - - - - - -
Friday evening was the femme’s last official duty for her soon-to-be-former employer, as she’s getting ready to move up into South Dakota, to teach dance and theatre arts there. It’s some sort of show at the county fair, of renaissance dances, costumes, and music, a great part of which I’d written for her a few years ago.
While we were dining, the property caretaker showed up, and grabbed a plate himself, joining us.
The neighbor’s wife had been here earlier, just before going down to Big Mo’s camp-site to pick up the primitive she-women interested in going to the Ladies’ Altar Society soup-and-salad lunch and the accompanying bake sale.
The caretaker illuminated me that Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, the cbayer primitive, flyarm, the elleng primitive, the great-aunt, LynneSin, the raccoon-bitten Aerows primitive, and Wills, had gone with her.
Hmmm, I said; “then who’s that on top of the houseboat down there, sitting at the Gatling gun, guarding the chickens so no more of them get ripped off?†One could see someone sitting there, but as it’s quite a distance, one couldn’t make out who it was.
“That’s the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive,†he replied; “she wasn’t feeling social today, and so decided to stand watch so that Big Mo could leave for a while.â€
I didn’t hear it, but the other two did; there was a sporadic rat-tat-tat from the roof of the miniature houseboat, cali apparently shooting off the gun so as to ameliorate her boredom. The back porch is out of range of the gun, so I wasn’t concerned, although I’d like to know what it was she was shooting at.
Well, I suppose, I said, “Ms. Vanderbilt-Astor’s at the fancy hotel trying to pick up men, and Skippy’s probably in a tent down there, sleeping off last night’s drunk. He was kind of unhappy Romeo wasn’t around, and I wasn’t feeling social, but that didn’t stop him from pulling a bender, solo.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
“That Wills guy, the William769 primitive, is a sad case, isn’t he?†the caretaker said.
“Yes, it’s so tragic,†the femme added; “it’s hard to not feel sorry for him.â€
True, I agreed, “but we all make our own beds.
“You know, I at various times tried to engage him in some social intercourse, some chitchattery, some conversation, but it always led to a one-way dead end.
“Talk with him about the weather, or the upcoming college football season, or the wildlife around here, or what he thinks of Fermer’s theorem in mathematics, and sooner or later, he twists the subject into a discussion of the big ‘P.’
“That’s all he apparently thinks about; that if he could only find the ultimate big ‘P,’ he’d need nothing else out of life to feel fulfilled and happy forever and ever.
“I’m mighty attached to mine, and would die before I let anything happen to it, but geezuz, it hardly dominates my life.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
The femme inquired about happenings at another end of Nebraska.
“Nothing’s changed,†I answered; “still the same, leaving me living in suspended animation.â€
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to be continued
-
The neighbor’s wife came by in early afternoon, having returned Big Mo’s she-women from the Ladies’ Altar Society soup-and-salad lunch and bake-sale.
“How’d it go?†I asked.
“Better than I’d guessed it would,†she replied, pointing out that she’d bought three rhubarb pies for me at the bake-sale, all of which I immediately put into the freezer of the refrigerator.
“Despite that they think we’re all hayseed hicks around here, they all behaved.
“But I don’t understand their penchant for giving things that already have names, more names.
“I don’t understand why chicken, ham, Swiss cheese inside of bread needs to be called anything but that. Going around with Big Mo’s people, one might as well carry along a French-to-English dictionary.â€
Yeah, I agreed; “the primitives can be pretentious at times.â€
“By the way,†the neighbor’s wife told me, “they’re having a big cookout Saturday evening down on the river, and we’re all invited--but Big Mo says ‘don’t anybody bring any chicken.’ They bought about half the stuff at the bake-sale, for it, including the poppyseed rolls and dough-wrapped potatoes, which they called by some other names.â€
Hmmmm, I said; “of course we’ll all go.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
“Do you suppose [the business partner] would show up for it?
“I have to tell you that the great-aunt she-woman is quite the snoop; she kept asking all sorts of questions about him, darkly hinting that she ‘has something on him’ that’d get him into a lot of trouble.â€
“Well, if that’s the case, he’ll definitely be there,†I assured her, omitting to tell her that the business partner had agreed to “play†franksolich while Big Mo’s she-women are here.
“Who else do you think’ll come?â€
“Your family, of course,†I replied, “myself, [the business partner], [the femme], [the property caretaker] and his wife, maybe [the insurance man] and his wife, [the wife of the retired banker] and her nerdy nosy grandson, and maybe some friends of [the femme].
“About twenty of us, I suppose, so we’d better bring along some chow too, to bolster the buffet.â€
“What about Romeo?†she asked; “you’ve been spending a lot of time with him lately, and so maybe he should come, too.â€
Yeah, the stress-relieving “sessions,†I said, “but the problem being, I haven’t seen Romeo since our cookout Wednesday evening, when he took off with the Sarah Ibarruri primitive. No one’s seen either one of them since.
“And Romeo’s not the sort who’d have to take a shovel and dig a hole to hide something.
“So I dunno what’s up with him.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
The neighbor’s wife was going to the county fair, where four of the five children (the fifth is still only a toddler) had things boasting purple and blue ribbons, and as I wasn’t doing anything other than sitting around twiddling my thumbs waiting for Romeo to show and illuminate me as to what was up with the three women from Omaha coming here to party this evening, I decided to follow her, but first left a note in case Romeo showed up, telling him where I was, and to stay here until I got back.
While there, I encountered Gerta, the overly-heavy, overly-tattooed chain-smoking woman who was the cook for the carnies, who are camping on the Italianate tract next to this.
“So…..how come you’re here, and not back there?†I asked.
“Friday’s the second-biggest day of the fair, after Saturday,†she said, “and Louie needs all of us to work the carnival. Nobody’s going to be back there until one or two in the morning, after shutting down the carnival for the night.â€
- - - - - - - - -
Some time after that, maybe twenty minutes or half an hour later, I ran into a certain woman, the one that the now-retired property caretaker used to call “franksolich’s kept woman, that brazen hussy.â€
She’s in her late 30s, and other than wire-rimmed eyeglasses that make her look stern, she’s generally aesthetic, being tall (for a woman), svelte, pert, her only flaw being that she looks nothing like anyone of Hebraic derivation.
She works as a paralegal in the big city, where she also lives. It’s true that base carnality has always been the only thing attracting the two of us to each other. But it’s been a long time since we last hopped around in the sack, and I began waxing nostalgic.
She was with two other women, neither of whom I knew.
“Are you maybe up to going to the river to have some fun, to re-live old times?†I asked her. “I’m not talking my place, but the place next to it, where nobody’s going to be around.â€
to be continued
-
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DUmmie emailed me and wants me to ask for a friend of theirs, "Can you smoke that?"
-
DUmmie emailed me and wants me to ask for a friend of theirs, "Can you smoke that?"
I dunno what that is; some weed or something, I guess.
It wants to grow here, so I let it grow. I suppose it looks aesthetic--if so, that's because we had a rainy spring and a moderately-temperatured summer, causing all foliage to flourish.
There's s-o-o-o-o-o-o much that grew out here this summer.
If any primitive's paying more than a buck for a dozen big ears of sweet corn at a "farmers'" market in a blue state, then some "farmer's" making windfall profits.
The William Rivers Pitt is coated with tomatoes, but because I'm aware of the progenitors of these tomatoes, I still buy them at the grocery store in town instead.
-
I dunno what that is; some weed or something, I guess.
Crabgrass? That stuff'll grow almost anywhere.
-
Crabgrass? That stuff'll grow almost anywhere.
I dunno. It's green, it's foliage, and it grows.
I grew up in a wonderland of natural life--this was before the Sandhills, when we still lived alongside the Platte River, when I was still a lilliputian little lad--and one can get too much of this sort of thing, nature, so I ignore it, leaving plants alone to do their own thing while the plants leave me alone to do my own thing.
-
warning; we’re dipping into “R†territory again, for about three chapters, after which we return to matters that wouldn’t dent the “G†rating.
Her two women friends seemed somewhat, uh, hesitant, despite her constant reminder that I’m a nice guy, “one of the nicest guys one can ever hope to meet,†but agreed after she said, “Well, if it makes you uncomfortable, you can leave and come back here, no problem.
“But I’m going with him,†she added, kissing me. “It’s been a long time.â€
My car was way over on the other side of the fairgrounds, so we took the car they’d arrived in; whose it was, I had no idea. I sat in the back seat sucking face and caressing torso, occasionally pausing to give a direction or two, as we headed to Meyer and Alberto’s real-estate.
Once there, I bounded out the back seat, already half-undressed before my feet hit the ground. By the time I’d gone around the back of the car to her door, I was done.
‘Whoa-ho,†I hollered, as she laughingly allowed me to pull her out. “Let’s play, let’s play,†I said as I removed the top half of her clothing, tossing it back inside the car. I kissed, cupped, and fondled her upper pair, and then we sucked face while the two other women stared.
“Oh, he’s just that way,†my woman explained to the other two; “always eager to get started right away.
“And you haven’t lost any spirit the past few years,†she said to me; "still the same."
I pulled down and off her pants, and her panties; we were now all set.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Well,†she said to her friends; “we’re ready, what about you?â€
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She walked towards a shallow pond, suggestively swinging her derriere and turning her head to blow a “kiss†in my direction. I didn’t move, however, instead waiting where I was, to see what the other two were going to do.
“This is weird,†one of them said; “we don’t even know you. It‘s nothing personal; you have a great body with good-looking equipment and all that, but we don‘t even know you.â€
“But she does,†I said, pointing to my woman, “and she knows I’m good.â€
That failed to sway them, not even a move to loosen a button.
The woman I knew came back to us, suggestively swaying her hips. I wanted in.
“He’s clean,†she assured her friends, “and he’s good, too. As you can see, he’s hardly wanting in what makes him a man. In fact, I feel myself generous in offering to share him with you.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
One of the two women was standing behind me, her arms draped over my shoulders as she looked down past that. “You know, you’d look really good shaved,†she said.
I groaned. “Well, fortunately for me, there’s no razors handy at the moment.â€
“Oh, but I have some manicure scissors in my purse,†she told me; “it’s not the same thing as using a razor, but I’m sure I can trim pretty close.
“Without hurting you, of course.
“And if you don’t put up a struggle and resist, of course.
“And I’ll give you a special treat if you let me do it,†she concluded.
My hair--on top of my head--stood on end. My partner, who was totally naked, and the third woman, who was still fully clothed, each grabbed one of my arms and held them back. Not being the strongest person around, I was outmatched.
Kneeling in front of me, she trimmed the hair around the base of it, and then grabbed it to pull, so she could finesse the job. My arms still locked behind me, I squirmed, but only feebly.
Lightly brushing the general area off with her fingers, she knelt back on her heels and examined the handiwork. “Now, that looks really good,†she said approvingly; “there’s not a woman alive who wouldn’t want that inside of her.
“And now,†she added, “weâ€--indicating the third woman--â€have to get back to the fair, and don’t have much time. But as a reward for being a good boy, I’ve got time to quaff it dry, it’s so pretty.â€
This was embarrassing. If she did that, I wouldn’t be able to poke my partner for a couple of hours.
But my partner saved the day, embracing and kissing me, her upper pair smashed hard against my chest, and it being right about where it was supposed to be on her lower region, excepting still outside, as I groped her derriere.
“He’s mine now, all mine, so you two go back to the fair while we stay and have some fun.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
We were laying in the grass, she on her back and I on my side, propping my head up with a bent arm, and fingers from the hand of the other arm playfully probing around inside her down there.
“Tell me,†I said; “what’s your favorite fantasy, and maybe we can do something about it.
“But I hope it doesn’t involve costumes or toys.â€
“Oh,†she said, “it’s a rather silly one, but I fantasize about it all the time. I’d like to be alone among one hundred naked men playing around--all these naked guys playing football, baseball, basketball, tennis, soccer, volleyball, field and track, hockey.
“All these naked men around me, myself naked among them, and them doing whatever I wish them to do.â€
Hmmm, I said, “Not golf, too?â€
Oh, she gushed. “I’d love to watch you and [the business partner] play golf naked.â€
I arched my eyebrows. This was certainly interesting.
“But it’s not going to happen,†I cautioned her. “I’d do it for you, but [the business partner]’s not as free-spirited as I am, and his sense of propriety‘s stronger than mine.
“About the best I can do for you there is, if we get back to the house early enough, play naked croquet for you to watch. And I’m not likely to find ninety-nine other naked guys for you to enjoy looking at. You‘d have to be satisfied just watching me.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
She smiled, and asked, “well, what’s your favorite fantasy?â€
I dunno, I said, staring up into the sky.
“Maybe it’s to poke a woman 24/7/365; there can’t be anything more fun than that.â€
Oh now, she said, “be serious. My fantasy’s far-fetched, but still possible, if some work were put into it.
“But making love to a woman 24/7/365 is impossible. Something a bit closer to being possible, please.â€
“Okay†I warned her; “I’d like to be naked all the time, never wearing any clothes, and always ready to accommodate any woman who wants poked. There’s a certain freedom, an exhilaration, an exuberance, about being naked.â€
She laughed.
Ignoring that, I pointed out, “but I can’t be, because the world’s full of people, each one possessing certain sensitivities and sensibilities that can be offended. My feelings don’t trump everybody else’s or anybody else’s; we all have to be respectful of each other.
“If society in general says ‘wear clothes,’ well then, it’s a good idea to wear clothes, if one wishes to get along.
“One can’t control one’s feelings, but one can control one’s conduct.
“I’m a very courteous person, very sensitive of the tastes and morals of other people.â€
She laughed again.
Ignoring that too, I pointed out, “and so when around others, I take care to be appropriately attired.
“Alas, the only chance I have to be naked is between 10 p.m. and 6 a.m., when nobody’s around to see…..but then I’m sleeping all that time.
“Or like right now,†I said, tickling her again down there, “when off in an isolated place where nobody’s around.
She laughed a third time. “But there’s never any time here when nobody’s around; there’s always somebody around, but of course you can’t hear them, and so don’t see them.
“Think of all those early-morning observations--â€
“Those don’t count,†I interrupted; “they’re either only guys, or they’re women like Crystal and Annette down in Joplin, and Amber down over in Tucson, who’re so coarse they can’t possibly be offended.
“Between 10 p.m. and 6 a.m., old folks, respectable women, and children are in bed, not running around out here. I’ve never been spotted by someone who could be offended.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
She hinting that she was “ready,†I got up and kneeling, sitting on my heels, began raising and folding her legs, after which I gently began coming down on her.
“If we get done soon enough,†I suggested, “maybe I can play a game of naked croquet to amuse you before we have to go back to the fair.
“But I’m not in any hurry; in fact, I’d like to poke all the rest of the afternoon, right here.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
About an hour later, she hinted she was sated, and so we decided to leave.
But upon getting up, we both remembered something at the same time.
We’d left our clothes in the car.
The other two had gone back to the county fair, and we’d agreed that the two of us would just walk back to my place--it’s not far, only a mile--pick up another of the vehicles there, and meet them at the fair.
Well, excresence, I said; “but at least nobody’s likely to come this way anyway, so we’re safe just heading back home as we are, only unimpressed wildlife seeing us.â€
So we started, holding hands and squeezing backsides, walking back to the house.
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/august/italentrance_zps756e7696.jpg) (http://s1100.photobucket.com/user/Eferrari/media/august/italentrance_zps756e7696.jpg.html)
We were about halfway there when suddenly out of nowhere, the raccoon-bitten Aerows primitive and Wills broke through the trees and stepped onto the path ahead of us, walking our direction.
to be continued
-
“Whoa,†I said, suddenly reaching down with my hand to cover up a certain triangle of hair on her; “don’t be nervous. Act as if nothing’s out of the ordinary, that we’re just another couple strolling down a country lane.
“Eye contact, strong eye contact, and that’s all they see, the face and nothing else.
“But we’re okay anyway, because the reedy-thin woman prefers other women, while the gaunt emaciated guy prefers other men, and we’re straight. Even if they saw, they wouldn’t give it more than a passing glance.
“I’m a pro at this, remember; distract, distract, distract.â€
Greetings, I said to them as we walked past them, tipping an imaginary hat into the air.
They looked at my eyes, and not any other part of us.
“I’m not so sure,†she laughed.
- - - - - - - - - -
When we reached this place, the only vehicle parked outside that hadn’t been out here before was Romeo’s truck., and so it was safe to go right on into the house.
As we were standing in the kitchen, Romeo suddenly burst through the back door.
He’d been on the back porch, and announced, “Man, do I have things to tell you--â€
After which he stopped in his tracks, seeing my woman and myself standing there, naked.
Oh my, he said, emitting a low whistle.
She, not knowing who he was, shifted in back of me, trying to shield herself.
I turned my head back to her, saying, “Don’t worry; it’s only Romeo. It’s copacetic, it’s cool,†after which I pulled her to my side, and introduced them.
Whoa, he said, emitting another low whistle. “I screwed up about tonight’s planned party, but it looks as if you’ve already taken care of yourself…..and how.â€
He kept his eyes on her as I asked him, “Hey, dude, what happened? You’ve been gone since Wednesday night when you went away with the Sarah Ibarruri bitch--I hadn’t heard a word, and people haven’t seen you around other than at work. And the people you work with have no idea, and so didn’t ask.â€
Still appraising her, he replied, “I was with her all the time when I wasn‘t at work--she was staying out at my place, and wouldn‘t leave--and man, what an ordeal. I just now got rid of her, taking her to the hotel in [the big city], so she’d be with her fellow she-women primitives, and not me.
“But you, it looks like you had better luck.â€
“Tell me about her, and the missing women from Omaha, later,†I said; “for right now, I’m engaged to play naked croquet, and you’re welcome to join us.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
We went out to the back porch, and as Romeo started pulling off his clothes, she and I looked over towards Big Mo’s campsite on the river. “There’s people down there,†she said.
I glanced through the telescope mounted on the porch railing. The bitter old Vermontese cali primitive was still perched on the roof of the miniature houseboat holding the chickens, her finger constantly on the trigger of a swiveling Gatling gun.
The rest of Big Mo’s crowd, excepting for Ms. Vanderbilt-Astor the NJCher primitive, Skippy, and the Sarah Ibarruri primitive, who were probably still at the hotel forty-two miles away, were piling into two cars.
They were headed for the county fair.
“Yeah, but they’ll be gone in a couple of minutes,†I assured her.
Romeo had pulled off all but a white athletic supporter, when I mentioned to her, “See, when it’s hot, he doesn’t wear underwear either.
“Of course, he’s got to do a lot of rough-and-tumble work, climbing up and down things, wrestling with things, some of which might be hazardous to his male parts, and you’re going to see in a minute why he has to wear one with a supersized cup.â€
Romeo, who of course heard me, grinned and wiggled at her before pulling off the jock strap.
Oh my, she said; “I thought only black men grew them that big.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
Romeo and I played naked croquet, then two-man naked soccer, our lower ornaments dangling and swinging-to-and-fro, a sight that for whatever reason, seemed to titillate her.
But the late afternoon sun bore down, and it was humid, so we decided to just sit on the porch and chitchat. I was perched on the edge of the railing, it dangling down--she probably goes nuts over decorated Christmas trees and all their hanging balls, I thought--and smoked a cigarette.
Romeo laid down on the chaise longue, and she laid on her back on top of him as he fiddled with her upper pair. They smoked too, but dope, not tobacco.
After a bit, I got down and sat on a wooden stool near the chaise longue; Romeo was still fondling her upper pair and they were now sucking face, giving me dibs on her lower parts. I inserted one finger, and then another, so as to tickle her into bliss.
As the sun began burning directly at us, we decided it’d be better to move operations to the air-conditioned bedroom, the only air-conditioned room in the house. But before going in, we went down to the back yard again and doused cold water from the garden hose all over each other.
The bedroom like the other rooms here is large, but the bed therein is only a single-wide, as being only one person, I need minimal real-estate on which to sleep. She seemed confused as to how three people were going to do it, but Romeo already knew how it went; after all, he’d been around when as many as four people were configured onto it.
It was obvious that Romeo expected to be vacuumed, and so her bottom half was all mine, to play with as I wished. Romeo and I are tall, but all three of us being narrow, it worked out.
to be continued
-
The sun was starting to come up the next morning--it was shortly after 4 a.m.--when I awoke, finding myself inexplicably on blankets and a pillow on the floor, while Romeo was still on the bed. She was gone; I assumed correctly that her two friends had come here to pick her up after the county fair closed down for the night, and took her home.
I prodded Romeo awake, thinking he’d have to get ready for work, and wondering what’d happened after I’d dozed off. No, this was his Saturday off from work, he said; he was free to hang around all day long, and then as he did after each stress-relieving “session,†gave me a critique of my performance.
It was all nonsense, of course; I’d already had my “first time†when Romeo was still in kindergarten, but as I’m a nice guy and it makes him feel good giving me advice and counsel, I listened.
“You were like the Eveready rabbit,†he said grudgingly but also admiringly; “you just kept going and going and going and going long after any other guy would’ve popped. Your self-restraint is great, awesome the way you can hold it in until you want to pop.
“To be honest, even I can’t hold it in that long.â€
Romeo thinks rather highly of himself, but as it helps him feel good, I let it pass.
“But I’ve never heard of a guy who puts so much concentration and energy into poking a woman, who when he pops, he passes out, collapsing on top of her. It turns out okay, but still, it makes a woman nervous.
“You need to learn to conserve energy for afterplay too.
“We were afraid we might knock you off the bed, and so got up to put you down on the floor.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
Since we were now awake, we moved to the kitchen to make some coffee, and then after that was ready, went out to the back porch, so I could be illuminated as to what’d happened with the Sarah Ibarruri primitive, and the three women in Omaha.
We sat on the steps of the back porch. I lit a cigarette; Romeo doesn’t smoke. Cigarettes, that is.
It might seem, uh, rather weird, two adult males sitting and talking, stark naked, their ornaments dangling down from the edge of the steps--we joked about how it‘d turned her on--but by this time, both Romeo and I had engaged in so many stress-relieving “sessions†together, that it was, really, nothing more than two guys chitchatting in a locker room after a game.
Romeo was a narcissist, an oaf, and lacking in creative imagination, but damn, I was having a good time during these “sessions.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
“That Sarah Ibarruri she-woman,†Romeo began; “she was a bitch. I’d never seen a woman s-o-o-o-o-o starved for sex, she was like someone who hadn’t eaten for forty years, she was so hot to trot. All that we did, she kept wanting more and more of it. This woman was insatiable.
“What was worse is that she has those muscles down inside there, that act like tentacles, trapping one’s appendage in there, and hanging onto it forever. I felt as if I’d put it into a steel trap, and wasn’t going to get it back out until she decided to release me.
“Outside of work, it was sex-sex-sex, nothing but sex, sex all around the clock. I didn’t even get any sleep between Wednesday evening and last night.
“But as her flight back to Florida leaves on Sunday, she had to get back to Big Mo and her pals; I never want to see that unquenchable bitch again.â€
And about the three women from Omaha, I asked.
“Because I was so busy trying to satisfy that Sarah she-woman, I never called them, as I’d promised, to make arrangements to bring them up here for a party. They’re probably all worked up and bent out of shape, especially the Argentine, who was really looking forward to meeting you, and I was really eager to take on the Italianate and the Greek.â€
“Well, there’ll be a next time,†I assured him.
- - - - - - - - - -
Even though it was barely 5 a.m., we noticed some activity taking place down at Big Mo’s campsite; the figures were too far away to be distinct, but apparently there was some sort of “changing of the guard†on the roof of the miniature houseboat where Big Mo’s chickens were kept.
I got up to look through the telescope.
Yeah, I said, “the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive just handed over the Gatling gun to the great-aunt, who’s now sitting cross-legged on the roof, swinging the gun around.
“And ooooops,†I continued, “it looks as if cali’s walking up here.â€
The two of us scrambled inside to get dressed, although there wasn’t time to shave.
By the time cali reached the back yard, Romeo was standing on the porch, dressed in his boots, Levi pants, a cotton shirt, and a cowboy hat, and I was standing there too, dressed in my Land’s End imitation 1914-1918 ANZAC desert warfare attire, khaki shorts, a cotton shirt, and a tan bush helmet protecting my face against the sun.
to be continued
-
we’re back to “Gâ€-rated material now, but the next two’ll dip into borderline “PG-R“-rated.
The bitter old Vermontese cali primitive, pausing at the bottom of the steps leading up to the back porch, looked at us, and uncharacteristically laughed. She knew who I was, but she hadn’t met Romeo yet.
“Wyatt Earp and Lord Kitchener of Khartoum, I assume,†she smiled.
Since cali seemed to be, uncharacteristically, in a good mood, I invited her to join us for coffee.
No, sorry, she said; she drank only healthy drinks.
So I escorted her into the kitchen, where I showed her a vast array of herbal teas and some such; since the femme’s moving up to South Dakota, she’s unloading all the stuff she doesn’t want to take with her, on me.
Her eyebrows arching at the exclusivity of some of the brands, she commented, “I can’t even get some of this stuff in New England, and here it is, available in supermarkets out in the middle of nowhere.â€
“You’d be surprised what’s out here in the middle of nowhere,†I replied, although very gently, as I wished to keep her in a good mood.
- - - - - - - - - -
cali finally selected something, although it took her an awful long time.
That’s one of the main differences between men and women, I thought, as I watched her contemplate.
Like in shopping, a man walks into a store, heads right for what he wants, gets it, pays for it, and leaves.
Women, on the other hand, tend to waste a lot of time comparing, considering, and deciding.
It’s a pain, shopping with a woman.
We went out to the back porch again, joining Romeo.
She illuminated me that she didn’t know if we already knew, but anyway, Big Mo is having a “farewell†picnic down at the campsite in the evening, and that we all were invited to come.
I didn’t tell her that I already knew this, because it gave me another opportunity to keep her pleasant, by thanking her. I also suggested that since we’re a rather large crowd, we’d bring along stuff too, to augment the buffet.
Remembering something though, I cautioned her, “We’re a meat-and-potatoes crowd, and maybe some there wouldn’t appreciate what we bring.â€
Yes, she sighed; she was aware of it, our what she considered “unhealthy foods.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
“Well, you saw what’s in the refrigerator and freezer, madam,†I replied. “How about before you go back, you take a look again, and tell me what’s suitable to bring?â€
“You do have a lot of food out here, for a single person,†cali commented.
Yeah, I said, “but most of it’s food brought out here by other people, because this is a popular place for cookouts and other gatherings; it’s spacious indoors and out, it’s naturally scenic, and the house is mostly empty, meaning it’s a breeze to both set up and clean up, hardly a problem.
“This way, nobody has to mess up their own kitchens and dining rooms.
“And they leave the leftovers here.
“I wouldn’t have to go to the grocery store at all, excepting that nobody ever brings over the essentials--milk, orange juice, sour cream, butter, cheeses, ice cream, half-and-half, real cream--and at the moment, tomatoes.â€
cali looked at me as if I were Bozo from Outer Space.
“But on that hillâ€--referring of course to the Jungfrau-looking William Rivers Pitt, 740 cubic tons of antique swine manure, dating from 1875-1950--â€you’ve got thousands of tomatoes growing; it’s more red than green,†she pointed out.
Uh huh, I said, “and other people do come out to pick them, but I wouldn’t touch one with a ten-foot primitive.â€
The long-ago family, when in the swine business, fed their pigs household scraps and excess produce from their gardens, including tomatoes. The current tomatoes are descendants of generations-ago tomato seeds that passed, undigested, through the intestines of pigs. But I didn’t tell her that.
“Buying tomatoes at the grocery store’s safer.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
I also remembered something else.
“Someone made some soup from a recipe NJCher posted in the cooking and baking forum, for the cookout we had Wednesday night, but alas no one took any. The pot’s still full, in the refrigerator.
“Maybe us bringing something she herself suggested would make NJCher more kindly about us.â€
“I don’t think NJCher’s going to be there tonight,†she said; “she hasn’t been out here at all, spending all of her time hanging around the Olympic-sized indoor swimming pool at the hotel, trying to pick up men from Los Angeles, New York City, Miami, London, New Delhi, Shanghai, Rome, &c., &c., &c.
“That’s quite a cosmopolitan crowd out here in the middle of nowhere.â€
“You’d be surprised who comes out here to the middle of nowhere,†I replied, although very gently, as I wished to keep her in a good mood.
- - - - - - - - - -
“What was the soup?†cali inquired.
I got up and went back into the kitchen to retrieve the pot; the property caretaker’s wife had made it for the cookout three days previously, thinking that if she brought something which a primitive had suggested, and so which Big Mo’s crowd would like, the primitive she-women would become more agreeable company.
I brought it out, and opening the lid, showed it to cali.
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/august/njchersoup_zps3d7a4c12.jpg) (http://s1100.photobucket.com/user/Eferrari/media/august/njchersoup_zps3d7a4c12.jpg.html)
cali blanched, turning ghostly white.
I know, I know, I said; “it looks like a bad case of diarrhea, where someone forgot to flush the commode.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
I took it over to the south end of the porch, and dumped it over the railing onto the flowers below.
“You see,†I explained, “not all of the food you saw in the kitchen’s all of the food brought out here; that’s not even a quarter of it. Since the only trash I can have hauled away has to be clean trash, it’s easier to just dump unwanted, decayable, food into the gardens, any one of the seven of them here, vegetables and flowers, and the torrid heat of the Sandhills summers and the frigid cold of the Sandhills winters fries and freezes it in no time at all, into fertilizer on which the foliage thrives.
“I recall an instance where your former colleague hippywife, Mrs. Alfred Packer, chastised someone for using white coffee filters, saying they weren’t decomposable.
“Well, look,†I continued, swinging an arm outward; “I toss used white filters and coffee out there all the time. During the winters of course it just freezes, and so by spring the grounds look considerably littered with white paper, as if I’m a slovenly person or something.
“But now, do you see anything that looks like white paper out there? No, because at least around here, white paper decomposes just as readily as the brown paper filters Mrs. Alfred Packer insisted had to be used.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
cali was curious about what other sorts of food I used for fertilizer.
“Well, there was a case from about five summers ago,†I reminisced, “when a guy came out here with a whole pick-up truck loaded with watermelons from Texas. He’s an older, short, dark little guy and lives around here, but he’s originally from Texas.
“He’d gone down there to his son’s farm, and picked up a truckload and a trailer load of watermelons, hoping to sell them up here, as he hadn’t seen any around. He was gone for three weeks, and when he came back, much to his sore surprise, the markets, both the super and the farmers’, were glutted with watermelons.
“He gave some of them away, but he still had a truckload of them left, and thought of me. I’ve done his income taxes for years.
“’Poor franksolich,’ he thought; “he’s probably going bankrupt feeding everybody who drops by.’ And so he came out here with them, thinking I could use them. A whole truckload of watermelons.
“Well, being a nice guy, I didn’t want to refuse the gift, and it was a lot of work for the two of us to carefully unload watermelons onto this back porch, in the corner where there’s always shade.
“And then after he was gone, I was compelled to take the watermelons--…..one…..at…..a…..time…..--out to the gardens and smash them into the ground, so as to decompose and fertilize.
“But usually it’s just unwanted food that’s brought out here. If I don’t want it, I thank the giver, and once the giver’s gone, I take it out to a garden and dump it.â€
“What sorts of things do you dump?†cali asked.
“Generally, anything with olives, mushrooms, peppers, onions, coconut, and fish in it. And the occasional canned vegetable or fruits that makes it way here; that’s just glop and gorp, canned vegetables and fruits.â€
to be continued
-
Even though it wasn’t 7 a.m. yet, and the sun was still in the front, not the back, of the house, it was already hot and humid. cali, in an attempt to courteously give equal attention, tried engaging Romeo in chitchattery, but as Romeo was still tired out from his exertions with the Sarah Ibarruri primitive, he didn’t say much.
I got up. “I’ll be back in a minute,†I said; “I have to get something to drink, it’s so hot.â€
I went into the kitchen, where I grabbed a particular flower vase, one that even when filled with ice, can hold a half-gallon of milk, and did just that, putting in ice and milk.
cali stared when I came back out with it.
“It’s okay,†I said; “it’s whole milk, real milk, not watered-down milk.â€
Oops, that apparently wasn’t what she was thinking.
“I use a flower vase because it’s big enough; on hot days, even a 52-ounce cup seems about as much as a demi-tasse.â€
That apparently wasn’t what she was thinking either.
“A flower vase, because those giant-sized insulated mugs from convenience stores, and ceramic steins, are heavy and clumsy.â€
Well…..I had no idea what she was thinking.
- - - - - - - - - -
“That’s unhealthy,†cali insisted; “not only is it milk, but it’s way too much milk.â€
I looked at her as if she were Bozo from Outer Space.
“It’s only 7 a.m.,†I said; “if it stays hot like this, by the end of today, I’ll probably will’ve put down four or five of these.â€
cali gasped.
Trying to guess her objection, I continued, “I know milk’s expensive, but I tell you what--even if it were ten bucks a gallon, I’d still keep buying it.
“I’d just give up coffee and cigarettes, that’s all. I have to have milk.â€
I raised the flower vase in a faux salute to her. “Milk, the perfect food.â€
cali kept staring at me, while I desperately flailed around inside my head, trying to guess why she was so hostile about it.
“I know it’s loaded with calories,†I said, trying another tack, “but when it gets too hot or too cold in winter, it’s what I live on. Sometimes it’s just too hot or too cold to chow down on solid food; it puts too much stress on the system processing it.
“Other times, I just take some fresh fruits or vegetables--whichever’s the most convenient to grab out of the refrigerator--toss them into the blender, and juice them, which I drink for breakfast, lunch, and supper, avoiding solid chow altogether.â€
cali finally gasped, “Exactly when is it ‘too hot’ or ‘too cold’ to eat?â€
For me, I replied, “anything above 70 degrees is too hot; I’m sweating like a pig. And anything below 10 degrees is too cold; I’m shivering.â€
Obviously, she was thinking I was weird.
- - - - - - - - - -
“I don’t understand why milk--and other dairy products--are considered ‘unhealthy,’†I said, in a desperate attempt to keep our chitchattery cordial, “but to listen to the big well-funded anti-milk lobby, one gets the impression it’s poison.
“Fortunately, I don’t pay any attention to big money selfish interests.
“Milk’s the most perfect food there is.
“I’m thinking of your colleague the warped primitive, the one with a face like Hindenberg’s, who alleges herself to be ‘lactose intolerant.’
“It’s really funny, how Warpy’s ‘allergic’ to things that are good for her, but not allergic to things that are bad for her, like sugar or chocolate.
“It’s all bullshit. It’s wholly reasonable to expect those of Asian or African derivation to not be especially endeared towards milk, but those of far northern European derivation have no such thing, their genetics having had thousands of years to adjust to it--and they had to adjust to it, because of the lesser sunlight in their lives.
“Adapt, or die.
“And the ones who couldn’t adapt, died off thousands of years ago.â€
I shifted in my chair, having graciously given the chaise longue to my guest.
- - - - - - - - - -
“I’m not of Danish derivation myself,†I went on, “being rather of English, Welsh, Scots, Brandenburgian, Slovak, and eastern European Hebraic stock. But I was born, and the first ten years of my life, was raised in a part of Nebraska heavily dominated by those of Danish derivation, diet, and culture.
“Denmark, along with the Netherlands, produces the tallest males in Europe.
“In both countries, more so than anywhere else, the common diet’s ponderously heavy in dairy.
“My father was born and raised in Pennsylvania; all of my older brothers were born, and for a while, raised, in New York City.
“My father, and the older brothers, got to, maybe, 5’10â€, 5’11â€, 6’.
“My younger brother and I were born and raised in Nebraska, immersed in this heavily-Danish area.
“I got to a razor’s edge under 6’3â€, and my younger brother was 6’1†when he died. He died when he was 17 years old, so I have no idea what his adult height would be, but I’m confident, he like me, would’ve towered over everybody else.
“So tell me now, madam, how is milk--and other dairy products--’unhealthy’?â€
- - - - - - - - - -
Trying to avoid answering the question, cali commented, “Well, people around here do seem to go overboard in the consumption of beef--â€
Right, I interrupted; “we produce the best beef in the world, and as there’s plenty of it around here, people tend to eat more of it than what’s perhaps good for them.
“Because it’s a Nebraska thing, I’m a big supporter--none bigger--of beef, and the beef industry.
“At the same time however, I personally dine so little on beef that I might as well be a vegetarian, much more inclined towards dairy. In fact, the only beef I ever consume are from the most-excellent hamburgers thoroughly cooked especially for me by Swede, the cook at the bar in town, or one or two hamburgers from one of the cookouts here, preferably cooked twice.
“I’m only guessing, but it seems to me Rosalynn Carter was First Lady, the last time I ever bothered with having a steak. It’s just not my thing. Dairy is, and once in a while turkey or chicken, white meat only, and if it’s dried out from being leftovers, all the better.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
“But you’re unhealthy, you’re a wreck, and it doesn’t take a physician to see it,†she insisted.
Ha, I huffed. “It’s forgiveable, because you wouldn’t know, madam, but you have no idea what my people were like, from what sort of genetic stock I sprung. Most of them were connoisseurs of culinary delights, and as they could afford it, they ate well. Bon vivants, they were.
“They all, with one current exception who’s about ready to go, died early, troubled by all the ailments and afflictions of the decadent, too-secure, too-easy, too-comfortable lives, affluenza.
“They had high blood pressure, high cholesterol, diabetes, kidney problems, bladder problems, and because of their overuse of pharmaceuticals, they got bloated with that loathsome dropsy.
“I, madam, have a medical checkup twice a year, a really comprehensive one at least once a year, because apparently I’m some sort of ‘genetic minefield’ that can go off at any time, for no reason at all.
“Thus far, it’s pleased God that I’ve shown not the slightest inclination--it’s a sheer miracle, given my compulsive chain-smoking, but there it is, there you have it--towards any of these things. That doesn’t mean they’re not there, of course, the potential to develop…..it’s probably that I just haven’t done anything to trigger them.
“I’m very lucky, and I credit at least some of it to my nutritional behavior.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
“But still, you look unhealthy,†she said. “I’m no medical doctor, but I do know some things, based upon Buddhist medicine and acupuncture, and I think there’s at least two things very seriously wrong with you.â€
I stopped in my tracks. She was right, but I wasn’t about to tell her.
“And now, you’re all wrought up,†she said. “You need something to relax you.
“I’m schooled in the arts of Buddhist massage,†she told me, “and I think having one would do you some good. Take off your shirt, so I can rub your back.â€
I recoiled in horror.
The problem was this: none of the she-women in Big Mo’s company had awakened even the least carnal twinge in me…..excepting the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive. I was repelled by her personality, but her body, her shape, her size, had aroused me like a tomcat. I wanted it.
However, while one can’t control one’s feelings, one can control one’s conduct.
My conduct towards her had been reasonable and cordial because I’d kept a “space†between us.
But if I let her actually touch me, there was no telling what would happen.
to be continued
-
My son, who is of German/Scotch derivation on my side and Polish on his dad's side, is 6' 4". But really it's the German genes from my dad that I passed on that tallness to him (I am not short either, 5' 8"). He and his other 3 brothers were several inches over 6' and his sister was at least my height.
-
My son, who is of German/Scotch derivation on my side and Polish on his dad's side, is 6' 4". But really it's the German genes from my dad that I passed on that tallness to him (I am not short either, 5' 8"). He and his other 3 brothers were several inches over 6' and his sister was at least my height.
Those are northern Europe.
It's best viewed on a globe, rather than a flat map, to understand how far "north" these places are--including Warpy's own ancestors in Ireland. While Denmark and the Netherlands lead in dairy consumption, I'm sure those areas you mentioned aren't too far behind.
-
cali walked inside the house, while I stood against the railing, wondering what she’d do next.
About the same time, Romeo decided to retreat into the air-conditioned bedroom to get some sleep, which was understandable, and the neighbor came walking out the back door.
Barely had I greeted him when cali walked back out, carrying a bunch of towels. She looked around, as if trying to decide how to do something.
“What’s up?†the neighbor asked her.
“He needs to have a massage,†cali explained, “and I’m qualified to give him one, at least the Buddhist version, where one’s massaged into serenity and peace. He’s all stressed out, he needs relief.â€
“Agreed,†said the neighbor; “he’s been under a lot of stress lately.
“The easy solution is to bring the two tables together and take off the back door--it’s detachable--laying that on top to form a bigger table. Here, let me help you.â€
My jaw dropped. I was incredulous. The neighbor, finking out on me?
The massage table set up, and the neighbor walked to the garage to get something, cali ordered, “Okay now, take off your shirt and lay down.â€
Uh, no, I said. “I don’t need a massage.â€
“Oh, but you do,†she said, grabbing me by the collar.
I backed off, but she followed me, still holding onto me.
I walked backwards all over the porch, but she remained clasped to me, and started to unbutton my shirt.
“You’re not going to take anything else off?†I asked; “otherwise I’ll have to get violent, and for the first time in my life, hit a woman.â€
No, she said; “just the shirt. Remember, I know acupuncture too, and in your case of relentless stress, the focus is on the back, nowhere else. Just the shirt.â€
“Promise?†I said; “just the shirt and nothing else, and you’re not going to be touching me anywhere but the back, right? Promise?â€
Oh, don’t be silly, she said; “just the back, but your shirt has to be off.â€
The property caretaker came through the back door onto the porch, from the kitchen.
“What’s up, dude?†after which he looked at cali.
“He needs to have a massage,†cali repeated, “and I’m qualified to give him one, at least the Buddhist version, where one’s massaged into serenity and peace. He’s all stressed out, he needs relief.â€
“You’re s-o-o-o-o-o right about that,†the caretaker said.
“I’ve never seen a massage done before; is it anything one can watch?â€
In this case, yes, cali assured him; “after all, he’s just going to have his shirt off.â€
to be continued
-
cali had managed to tear off my shirt--but fortunately nothing else--and flung me down onto the “massage table†when a shadow suddenly loomed over me.
“That’s a nice flat chest, but it’s too bad it doesn’t have much hair on it.â€
It was Big Mo, and she’d come to ask me if she and her crowd of she-women could swipe some tomatoes from “that big hill between your house and the road,†for the cookout in the evening.
I said yeah, sure, no problem--cali was still rubbing her hands and not me, so I was cool--but made a mental note to not have anything with tomatoes in it when I was dining there. “Oh,†I added, “you probably also see hundreds of watermelons laying around in the gardens--they aren’t quite ready, but maybe a few of them are, and if you want, take those too. They were originally Texas watermelons, and grow wild here.â€
Big Mo thanked me, and went over to sit down next to the property caretaker, the two of them engaging in merry chitchattery when the neighbor came back out from the garage and joined them.
There was an audience, and it didn’t bode well for me.
- - - - - - - - - -
Many years ago, when I was young, I worked in the accounting division at the state department of health, at the time a vast bureaucracy employing hundreds of people, all of us overpaid and underworked, making more money and enjoying more benefits, than our counterparts in private enterprise, the ones who were paying for all this.
Because my job was unchallenging, and not enough to keep me busy, I oftentimes looked around for other things to do.
The department of health oversaw various medical and health examining boards, for the purposes of testing and licensing professionals in those fields (I was the one who did all of the accounting for these boards), including the Board of Chiropractic Examiners and the Board of Massage Examiners.
During those examinations for licensure, an applicant was compelled to demonstrate his professional skills on a real person, in front of the assembled board and a physician. It was difficult to find “volunteersâ€--the department of health, not the applicant, had to provide them--as the role of dummy required some degree of undress.
Well, surely everybody’s seen overpaid and underworked governmental employees, and the fattening consequences of the too-easy, too-sedate, too-affluent life, and can understand why no one ever wished to volunteer.
I was bored, and so enthusiastically became the dummy, two times a year for each of the two boards.
During the examinations, because it involved a great deal of touching, caressing, and thumping, the inevitable (inevitable for a man) invariably occurred; sometimes when I turned over to sit up, it looked as if a tent-pole had been propped up underneath the front of my underwear.
This didn’t bother me, because the audience consisted solely of professionals who’d probably seen such a thing hundreds, if not thousands, of times in their careers; it was no big deal to them, and hence not to me.
- - - - - - - - - -
This however was different, and I dreaded cali laying her hands on me.
“You’re doing it all wrong,†a voice out of nowhere suddenly said.
I twisted my head and looked up, seeing the overweight over-tattooed over-mascara’d chain-smoking Gerta of the carnies standing there, with the handkerchiefless one, the old guy with white hair that stood straight up, a bug-eye, and a perpetually running nose.
“You’re doing it all wrong,†she repeated to cali.
to be continued
-
As the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive and the chain-smoking Gerta debated the differences, the advantages and disadvantages, of Buddhist massage as compared with Swedish massage, each of them standing on either side of me, thumping my back for emphasis as needed, I began feeling the presence of other people, although not actually seeing them.
The property caretaker and Big Mo had been sitting in a corner of the back porch, merrily chitchatting away, when the neighbor came back from the garage and joined them to watch.
But now I was also scenting the presence of the carnies Italianate Jesus, hippyhubby Wild Bill’s brother born with both eyes on the same side of his nose, and the handkerchiefless one.
Turning my head to look out (not up), I saw most of Big Mo’s crowd; CaliforniaPeggy, the cbayer primitive, flyarm, the husband-hating elleng primitive, the great-aunt, LynneSin, Wills the William769 primitive, were all there, standing on the ground peering in between the porch-railings.
Ms. Vanderbilt-Astor the NJCher primitive, and the scorned woman the Sarah Ibarruri primitive, were probably still at the fancy hotel in the big city, and didn’t plan to come out here anyway. As for Skippy, he was probably sleeping off a hangover, but whether at the campsite or at the hotel, I couldn’t guess.
The business partner had showed, as also had the neighbor’s wife and their five children, the property caretaker’s wife, the retired banker’s wife and her nerdy grandson, the neighbor’s older brother and two of his four children, the insurance man and his wife, Dane the automotive mechanic of Norwegian derivation, and the femme, along with some of her friends from the big city.
- - - - - - - - - -
Both cali and Gerta began using water-soluble color markers on my bare back, delineating boundaries and diagrams, the Buddhist version in green, the Swedish version in red.
They both took turns in demonstrating the caressing, rubbing, and thumping exercises of their respective arts, which gave me a jerky, unconnected sort of feeling, as both techniques are very different, and they alternated quite often.
Having a massage can be fun, yes, but if it goes on too long, one begins feeling about as solid as Jello.
I was past that, feeling rather soft and spineless, when cali, demonstrating what was allegedly a finer point of Buddhist massage, thumped a certain place in my lower back that abruptly caused me to mast, lifting my mid-section up into the air.
“Careful,†Gerta said; “that’s an erogenous zone.â€
“No it’s not,†cali replied; “it’s a Buddhist zone for peace and serenity,†thumping me there again.
Having barely collapsed back down on my stomach, I jerked up again.
“See?†Gerta said; “you’re arousing him, not serenitizing him.â€
“But my manual says this is the Buddhist zone for peace and serenity,†she insisted, thumping me there a third time. After which the collapsed pole poled up straight again.
“No, you’re wrong,†Gerta said. “It’s a major erogenous zone you hit there.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
The neighbor, curious, came over to look. Gerta took a red marker and drew a circle on my lower back.
“It’d be good for you to know this,†she told the neighbor, “because it’s the same on a woman, as it is on a man, and your wife might enjoy it. Try it.â€
The neighbor thumped me there. I jolted up into an inverted v-shape again.
“That’s very interesting,†Big Mo said, coming to the table. “I know something about massage, but I never knew this.†Then Big Mo thumped me there, causing the inevitable.
I began sweating; if this sort of thing happened often enough, it might snap in half.
The cbayer primitive gave it a try, but a weak one, and so while I poled, I didn’t bend up into the air.
Then they all lined up to try it, curious about where it was, and how it worked, this erogenous zone.
I felt as if I had a folding leg springing out from down there.
to be continued
-
After having been aroused as many times as there’d been people curious about an erogenous zone on my lower back, mercifully the thumping tapered off, as the carnies departed to work at the county fair, Big Mo’s crowd went out front to collect tomatoes off the William Rivers Pitt, and the others went off the see the county fair.
This left only the neighbor, the property caretaker, the business partner, and the insurance man on the back porch with me. As they had nothing planned for the day, they sat in the corner drinking beer and talking.
Romeo was gone, but he wouldn’t have hung around anyway, given that he’s not, uh, popular with most people. He’d either gone to sleep in the air-conditioned bedroom, or had gone home, but I was too limp to get up and check.
It was still only mid-morning, a long drag until Big Mo’s big cookout in the evening.
I was starting to doze off on the “massage table†when Skippy came bounding up the steps to the back porch, all recovered now from his hangover, and ready to start generating another one.
The others didn’t seem to know what to make of Skippy, but as he was a guy, a guy who drank beer, they accepted him into their chitchattery.
- - - - - - - - - -
I wasn’t so impressed myself, with Skippy, whom I’d known about ever since he’d called me out on an error I’d made. Some years, eons, before, I’d compiled a list of primitives that involved culling through, and comparing, more than 5,000 screen-names…..and then when that list was ancient history, Skippy’d discovered a single sole error in it, and gloated about it.
A single error, out of a possible “more than†5,000 errors.
Anybody else would’ve been impressed, such a negligible error rate, saying, “Wow…..only one mistake, only one single mistake, out of more than 5,000 that could’ve been made.
“That’s awesome.â€
But Skippy had obviously never read Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People, and instead of being impressed, had castigated me for making one single sole solitary mistake…..out of a possible 5,000+ mistakes…..and several years previously, on something that didn’t matter any more.
- - - - - - - - - -
Skippy’s in his mid-50s, an overpaid and underworked desk-sitting governmental employee out in California; I didn’t know if he’s been married before or not, but currently he’s single, and apparently straight.
He’s known Big Mo for years, and the great-aunt, also near Chicago, for a year or so. He also hangs with the cliffordu primitive, but as the cliffordu primitive’s one of the faceless lynch mob, part of the amorphous lumpenunterprimitiven with no distinguishing characteristics, I have no idea what’s up with that.
Skippy’s notorious for his bad haberdashery, as if he buys his clothes by mail-order from Blair in Warren, Pennsylvania or Haband in Oakland, New Jersey. Polyester plaid pants, shirts with straight hems that aren’t tucked in--he looks like the caricature of the middle-aged guy vacationing in Hawaii.
Skippy could probably stand to lose about 40 pounds and has the prematurely-aged leathery skin from too much time in the sun, but on the whole, generally, he looks better than many men his age, or even younger than his age.
Some months ago, Skippy suffered an aneurysm of the brain, caused by untreated high blood pressure, that in turn probably caused by a subconscious guilty conscience that he’s not nearly as much as he could’ve been; great potential, negligible performance.
to be continued
-
Skippy’d begun life with much promise; it was true that his father deserted his mother, his sister, and him when a little lad, and that they then were compelled to move in with his mother’s parents out in the rustics of California, where they owned an asparagus farm always under the dark cloud of potential bankruptcy.
Having had a strong father-son association with my own paternal ancestor--but alas it lasted so short a time; he dying at the age of 59 years when I was 17 years old--I’ve never been sure what growing up without a father means, only that it’s pretty serious business.
However, the hurt doesn’t seem worth the bitterness it seemed to engender in Skippy, which is a great deal, and stunted his potential to be a decent and civilized person.
I of course was born deaf, never having had hearing in my life--but I’m aware of something missing, and its absence has affected me greatly, not always in good ways.
But if that can be compared with growing up without a father, I dunno; all I know is that both of them are pretty serious business.
- - - - - - - - - -
However, “bitterness†and “resentment†seem to be missing from the whole gamut of feelings I’ve ever had, and I can say that, easily, with a straight face.
It’d been a great surprise to many, when I finally revealed that I’d been born without ears simply because my mother, when pregnant with me, had washed her hands using a bar of soap containing Accutane. All it took was one 10-second lathering of her hands, and my evolving head inside of her sealed up its sides forever.
Their surprise was in my reaction to learning the news; I merely said, “Well, my mother was a nurse, and had to keep her hands clean. And the dangers of Accutane weren’t known at the time. It’s just some random act that happened.†After which I’d gone on to discuss something else.
Yes, being born without ears, being born deaf, has considerably complicated my life, but all those years since I’ve learned this (when an adult), I’ve never seen the point of getting all upset and bent out of shape about it. It’s caused me untold confusion, frustration, vexation, but bitterness, never.
We are commanded by God to take all that we are given, and to make out best we can with that. We are to be grateful to God for whatever we are given, even if we’re given “less†than other people “get.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
Skippy was born exceptionally bright, sharp as a tack.
He’s denigrated that he attended school in a “two-room, two-teacher†country school--all the while forgetting that that education got him a full-ride scholarship into the most prestigious engineering college in America.
But something, and it wasn’t good, seemed to happen to Skippy about that time. Before then, he’d grown up among loving, caring people; honest people, hardworking people, people who valued Skippy highly, and wished him to do well.
I dunno what it was, but I suspect it was his search (ultimately successful, although nearly too late) for his father, various discombobulations involved with being 18 years old and flung into a strange world 3,000 miles away from what one’s only ever known--from rural California to congested New York City--and a serious weakness in his character.
The famous journalist, author, and Hollywood publicist, Eugene Fowler (1890-1960), who grew up under circumstances eerily parallel with those of Skippy more than half a century later, once commented that a boy searching for his father is really searching for God.
- - - - - - - - - -
It’s all speculative, of course, but it seems as if Skippy, when in college, allowed himself to fall under the influence of certain elements there, perhaps “international students†from northern Africa and southern Asia with a hate-filled contempt for America, Americans, and those principles which guide this country (or at least used to).
After which followed his adoration of the terrorist William “25 Million Dead†Ayers.
The primitives on Skins’s island are pretty extreme, way over on the fringe, but of them all, Skippy appears to be the most far-left, the most radical. One doesn’t doubt the walls of his home are covered with framed and autographed photographs of prominent personalities such as Kim Jung-on, Robert Mugabe, Yassir Arafat, Pol Pot, Idi Amin, the Aytatollah Khomeini, Saddam Hussein, Papa “Doc†Duvalier, Mao Tse-tung, Muhummar Khaddafi, Nicolai Ceausescu, Enver Hoxha, Jean-Bedel Bokassa, and other bloody murderers, usually of their own people.
Skippy looks like a genial, almost cherubic, slightly portly middle-aged man, but one shouldn’t be fooled by appearances. What seems to be, rarely is.
- - - - - - - - - -
It’s all very sad, the future of Skippy.
If those elements which Skippy so enthusiastically supports ever gain power by whatever means, franksolich of course is doomed. But not before Skippy’s own head is hoisted aloft by a hooded face; such people get rid of their useful idiots first, and only after then, the rest of us.
I was thinking about this when Romeo suddenly showed up here.
“I’ve got some women at home,†he told me; “if you want, we can have fun.â€
For a moment, I hesitated. “But there’s Big Mo’s cookout on the river this evening.â€
But I hesitated for only a moment, after which we headed out.
to be continued
-
Note: the next few chapters--I dunno, four or five of them--descend once again into the dark abyss of an “R†rating, after which this story has its denouement and conclusion, all of that being suitable as bedtime stories for young children.
For those who might, or might not, find the next few chapters offensive, there’s no intent to offend; it’s all meant as a parody, a mockery, of BainsBane’s constant hyper-paranoia about the “objectification†of women.
- - - - - - - - - -
When we pulled up into Romeo’s front yard, I first saw two cars parked in the yard, with “Hope and Change†and “diversity†rainbow bumper-stickers, and then I saw one of those big galvanized steel round stock tanks used for watering cattle and other livestock, about 30’ across, and about two feet high.
“That Sarah Ibarruri she-woman had me haul that here,†Romeo explained, “so we’d have water to play around in.â€
One couldn’t help noticing there were eight women of various shapes and sizes and appearances in it, leaning over, bending down, splashing water at each other, laughing and giggling, their exposed jugs flopping around.
“They’re all from Lincoln, good old Nebraska U.,†Romeo said; “I found them camping at a state park south of here, and they told me they were bored. I’m sorry they‘re all so big up there, but it was an opportunity, so I took it.â€
“But they’re still wearing thongs,†I pointed out; “it’s true that on most of them, it’s covering only a dime-sized area, but still, they’re not completely naked. And I really like women completely naked.â€
“Oh,†Romeo said, “the other thing is they don’t want to be poked. I‘m not one hundred percent sure, but I think they‘re women who like to do it with other women.â€
He was a little tardy in telling me this, but I remained optimistic.
It was as if a teenaged boy’s fantasy, all these 20-something bare-breasted women prancing around, jiggling their jugs, but whatever; it sure beat dining with Big Mo’s crowd.
- - - - - - - - - -
The woman who was in charge of all the women came rushing up to the truck before we could get out; she of course already knew Romeo, and perhaps was checking me out now. She was reasonably aesthetic--as they all were--but struck me as being somewhat, uh, bossy.
She planted her elbows on the edge of the opened window on my side, her uncovered big ones jutting inside, almost under my chin.
“Now, just because we’re women and that we’re playing around like we are, doesn’t mean we want to be ogled and touched by men.
“We deserve to be treated with dignity and respect,†said this woman, who had less on her than what a postage stamp would cover, and that only on her lower half.
I arched my eyebrows. As if Romeo and I’d had planned not to.
“Women have always been ogled and touched by men, and it’s about time men got treated as the meat, rather than the customer, at the market.â€
I had no objection to that, and didn’t think Romeo did either.
“Well,“ the head woman said, “we‘ve been grilling, and it’s almost done.
“Women have been forced to work as waitresses, cocktail servers, dancers, in various states of undress, or no dress at all, in sordid, tawdry dives such as those your pal Skippy and his pal the cliffordu primitive patronize, and it’s time men got an idea what it’s like, to be debased, humiliated, like that.
“How about if you two waited on us? The same way they have to wait on men.â€
“I’m game,†I said; “when do we start?â€
As I got out of the truck, I stripped off my shorts and slipped out of my shoes. We’d left my place without my putting on a shirt after the massage, and so that’s all I’d been wearing.
Romeo, on the other side, was doing the same thing, as the other seven women surrounded us, chirping and squealing and clapping, their substantial unfettered jugs flip-flapping up-and-down in excitement.
It was something to gladden any male impulses, although I’d like it better if they’d unburden themselves of those pesky thongs too.
- - - - - - - - - -
All eight women sat down at the long picnic table, covered with oilcloth and stocked with condiments, paper napkins, plates, and plastic eatingware. As they sat in their places, some of their ponderous jugs sagged low enough skim the surface, tickling their nipples, causing them to giggle.
As Romeo and I started distributing the dishes, one of the women protested. “Oh, don’t be so shy; stand closer to us as you put things down.â€
He and I’d never waited on tables before in our lives; it was all new to us, and we were trying to be courteous.
The problem seemed to be that given the height of the benches, when either Romeo or I bent over between two sets of twitching jugs to put down something the middle of the table, a personal part of us brushed up against the shoulder and cheek of one of them; we hadn’t thought they’d like that, but they did, oftentimes turning their head so as to gently brush the bridge of their nose against it.
“You smell so nice,†one pair of tingling jugs said, nuzzling me there from the side; “what do you use?â€
“’Preferred Stock’ cologne,†I said; “after my face and neck, of course, and then I rub down there to wipe the extra scent off my hands.â€
“You perfume there?†a squirming pair of jugs asked.
Well, I said, one never knows when it might come in handy, smelling nice there.
“Waiters,†the head woman announced, “don’t walk too far away; you need to remain within reaching distance.
“We want to touch and fondle and grope you, just as your pal Skippy and his pal cliffordu‘ve done, to women having to degrade themselves to make a living.
“At least we’re not demanding that you sit on our laps, too,†a statement which disappointed me.
After which Romeo and I, as we served, were constantly groped, usually in that area a few inches below the navel and a few inches above mid-thigh. I didn’t think it was so bad, and it didn’t appear Romeo thought so either.
“You know, I’m actually enjoying this,†I said.
- - - - - - - - - -
“You’re not supposed to enjoy it,†said the boss of the women. “Women don’t enjoy it, and we’ve had to put up with it since forever. You need to feel the same humiliation we do.
“You need to learn how it feels, being a sex object, a toy.â€
Well, I wondered what was so bad about that, and I was sure Romeo wondered too.
to be continued
-
After all the flip-flapping jugs had finished dining, and the table cleared, their leader told Romeo and me to stand at the end of the table for “inspection“ and commentary, “just like men do when discussing women at one of those debasing ‘beauty‘ pageants.â€
The sixteen jiggling jugs had already seen all of us that there was to see, but she insisted. “Back first, and then front.â€
“Whoa, they’ve both got nice asses,†the women agreed, “and without that unsightly crease under them. These guys work, or work out, hard. Those are great asses, nice tight asses, both of them.â€
“It doesn’t look like they sit on them much,†a pair of perky jugs said, â€keeping them nice and firm.â€
“They can sit on my lap any time,†a set of effusive jugs suggested.
“But his has hardly any hair on it,†one of the women said, referring to me. “I’m not big on hairy asses, but on a man, there should be at least some, a little bit, and all he’s got is down, fuzz. The other one doesn’t have much either, and it’s blond, but he’s got some.â€
The sixteen waggling jugs however agreed that both Romeo and I were equally well-seated.
- - - - - - - - - -
Then, upon demand, we turned around, where the differences were more stark.
The effervescent jugs first had Romeo and me lift our arms, discovering nothing objectionable, both of us being possessive of only light tufts of hair under there. Then they moved on down.
“His chest has just a few scraggly brown hairs on it,†another of the women complained, referring to me. “I’m not real big on hairy chests, but on a man, there should be more than what he’s got.â€
“But the other one‘s,†another woman said, “almost as bad; of course, he’s got blond hair and it doesn’t show as much, and so maybe there’s more there than it looks, but still it looks sparse, and so I’d call them equal.â€
The sixteen quivering jugs thought however that our hard flat chests trumped the absence of hair.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Now wait, before you look down,†the head woman told the assembled jugs, as if they hadn‘t already been looking down plenty the past hour, and didn‘t already know what all was there.
Looking at Romeo and me, she said, “Now you’re aware of the humiliation, the degradation, a woman goes through when posing for Playboy magazine, but she has to do it, to make a living.
“But the ignominy that posing in that magazine, the embarrassing public shame it brings, is nothing, nothing at all, when compared with the plight of working women posing for Hustler magazine. Men need to feel what those women feel.
“Now look, and evaluate,†she told the eager congregation of ebullient jugs.
On the lower attributes, while I’m far from diminutive myself, one has to remember that Romeo is hung like a horse, and so I expected to suffer in comparison.
“Well, they’re both cut, and such nice snip jobs, and that’s a big plus,†one of the women said. “So clean and pretty that if I didn’t prefer other women, I’d have no problem taking either one inside of me.â€
The differences in sizes were noted.
“He’s too big; the other one’s exactly right, exactly in proportion.â€
My eyebrows arched. “But I thought--â€
“Size matters only to oppressed straight women,†the boss of the women interrupted. “What really counts is proportionality, being exactly right for one’s height and body frame; it‘s not too large and it‘s not too small. It‘s just exactly right.
“Proportionality is aesthetic.â€
“But he cut off all the hair down there,†another woman protested; “because of the thick dark hair on his head, and the lack of hair on his ass and chest, he’d look better with hair down there, lots of hair. If he’d just let it grow, he’d look s-o-o-o-o good that if I was turned on by men, he’d turn me on something wild.â€
I winced. “Alas, it’s been my misfortune twice this summer to meet women who thought otherwise…..â€
“Look at what dangles, though,†a pair of inquisitive jugs pointed out; “they hang lopsided.
“I guess they’re supposed to hang this way, although I don’t know why. I suppose if I were straight, it’d turn me on, this disequilibrium, but because I’m not, it just looks odd.â€
“They look so heavy, too,†a set of scrutinizing jugs said; “it’s a wonder they don’t fall off.â€
I was hoping they’d want to see us prolonged too, but the jury of eight pairs of wigwagging jugs went ahead and decided it was a draw, “too big†being better than “shaved,†but “proportionality†more important than “bigness.â€
“Now are you getting it?†the boss woman asked us; “don’t you feel the humiliation in being so closely examined and critiqued? Are you starting to feel like what it makes women feel when men look at them like we’ve been looking at you?â€
- - - - - - - - - -
“Finally, consider the total body,†the main woman said, directing an imaginary pointer at Romeo and me. “Taken all together, what do you think?â€
The swirling mass of jugs hubbled-and-bubbled, considering us, the upshot being that, if they were to do it with men rather than other women, if one wanted raw unbridled hard-hitting sex, Romeo was the man, and if one wanted gentle refined sex, I was the man; another draw.
Man, I thought, remembering all the “sessions†Romeo and I’d had. They got that all wrong.
One pair of quivering jugs dissented. “The big one looks rather passive, while this other one, well, he might as well be advertising, ‘have cock, will travel, anywhere, any time, willing to pay own expenses.’â€
The wobbling jugs tittered at the funny.
“Well, I like confidence and audacity in a man, and he’s got it,†the quivering jugs added.
“Don’t you feel the humiliation that women feel,†the leader of the women asked, “when men inspect, and talk about, them like this? Can’t you just imagine your pal Skippy and his pal the cliffordu primitive, when at one of the dives they like so much, talking the same way about women?â€
I was confused, and I’m sure Romeo was too.
“Actually, I’ve enjoyed it, being looked over like this. I wish I could be inspected more often by more women. Constructive criticism always helps make one a better person--â€
to be continued
-
:rofl: Finally, something interesting for the jugs to take offense at.
-
It was early afternoon, and hot and humid. The skies kept threatening rain, but it never rained.
We all moved inside the stock tank, laying so we were up to our necks in the water.
I relaxed and observed.
Maybe I’d seen it before, but hadn’t paid attention; I marveled at the sight that jugs, rather than sinking into water, appeared buoyant, floating, as if they weighed nothing at all. No matter how big and fat and long they were, they floated, not sank.
Because it couldn’t be seen under the water, my woman allowed me to stick my fingers inside the front of her thong, exploring and tickling that concavity, hoping to dispel some of her grouchiness. Once in a while I moved so as to put myself into position to stick something else in there, but she shoved me away.
“But madam,†I whispered; “you can’t blame me for being a man, and having the needs of a man.â€
“Men are selfish,†she hissed back; “men think only of themselves,†slapping my extended appendage.
It was pretty obvious I wasn’t going to get to yank off the thong, and put anything more than my fingers in there.
One of the other women, bored, went to sit with a second woman on the rim of the stock tank, a piece of tarpaulin padding the sharp metal edge, and began sucking face and caressing each other. They still had on their thongs, but one of them reached inside the other’s so as to finger her, and I watched as closely as I could, to see if there was anything new about this technique I could learn.
While I was ascertaining no, there wasn’t, two other women bridged over myself to suck face, four jugs dangling perilously close to my nose.
Within a short time, six of the eight women--two were still attached to Romeo and me--were doing, uh, various things with each other, as Romeo and I watched, intrigued.
- - - - - - - - - -
Finally, the women looked at us, noticing we‘d become extended watching them.
“Okay, we’ve shown you guys how we do it with each other.
“How about now you two showing us how you guys do it together?â€
My hair stood up on end.
And again, it bothered me considerably that Romeo’s didn’t.
- - - - - - - - - -
Romeo and I were saved, however, from such a dread fate by the sudden appearance of a third vehicle, bearing license-plates from Lincoln, and in addition to the “diversity†rainbow and the “Hope and Change†bumper-stickers, there was a third one, ABORTION NOW.
There were four more women in it, and they belonged with the eight sets of bouncing jugs already here.
Twelve women, two guys. Romeo and I were going to jug heaven.
Or so I thought; at first, it looked as if they were all upset and bent out of shape because they’d gotten lost on their way here, but it soon became apparent it was that they didn’t like the presence of men here.
I waited, expectantly, for them to strip down to thongs and flaunt their jugs, but that didn’t happen. The driver of the car had a pair that stuck w-a-a-a-y out in front of her, and I was enormously curious what they’d look like when not covered up; phenomenons like that aren’t seen every day.
If the earlier arrivals were representative of the usual-and-normal women’s-libbers from Skins’s island, these later four were obviously from the extreme far-left revolutionary Maoist-Trotskyite men-haters.
“Why are these two penises here?†asked the driver.
to be continued
-
“’Penis.’ Penis,†I snorted. “What is this about reducing thinking, feeling, caring human males down to being simply a cock, and nothing more than that? As if instead of being people with two arms, two legs, a torso, and a head, we’re just phalluses interested only in poking women?
“You’re just envious, madam, because you don’t have one.â€
If she had been wearing pearls, she would’ve clutched them.
“Why, the brass--†she said, looking at me slowly, from top to bottom.
Of course she was thinking of the situation, a naked person confronting a clothed person, in which the usual reaction is for the first person, being so vulnerable and exposed, retreats, out of embarrassment or timidity.
“I never--†she started, waiting for me to back off.
“Of course you haven’t, madam,†I interrupted; “confident, self-assured men scare you, and so you run away from us, wish we’d go away, wish we’d never existed.â€
“But you’re naked,†she sputtered. “It offends me, and it’s supposed to embarrass you.â€
She obviously wasn’t thinking about Romeo and the eight pairs of heaving jugs trotting around, although admittedly, they weren’t quite totally nude, still wearing those irksome tiny patches that blocked entrance into them.
Of course, one wishes never to be caught thusly by children, respectable women, or old people, but generally I’m blasé about being caught in the buff by women whom I have no desire to impress, or by my own kind, adult males, who already know what we all look like anyway.
“It doesn’t bother me, because you’re just as naked, just as bare, just as exposed, just as vulnerable, as I am,†I said, without bothering to explain.
Ever since my earliest memories, I’ve always imagined other people as stark naked; it was probably a psychological “defense mechanism†developed when I was a small child, so as to deal with people who frightened me.
I get much grief for my lack of “paying attention,†but it’s only that I’m busy looking at things other people are too busy hearing, to see. Even when covered with six layers of clothing, there’s enough hints and suggestions to observant eyes, about what one really looks like, underneath all that padding.
If a person’s agreeable to me, I mentally slap the clothes back on so as to restore dignity and propriety, but if otherwise, that other person might as well not bother being dressed at all when in front of me. (In case one’s wondering, all members of conservativecave look clothed to me, while Skins’s island is nothing but a vast nudist colony.)
- - - - - - - - - -
Well, I thought to myself, my own father had predicted such a thing years ago.
He wrote me a letter on every anniversary of my birth, beginning with the first and continuing until I was 17 years old, dying two days after that birthday. I still have all of them.
The one he wrote me the year I turned 13, he advised and counseled me that secure, confident, strong people would never feel nervous about me, and in fact like me. However, I was also destined to considerably discombobulate insecure, distrustful, paranoid, weak people. So it was best for me to avoid the second sort as much as possible, so as to not incite anything, getting them all upset and bent out of shape.
- - - - - - - - - -
She remained standing by the side of her car, ranting and raving against males and masculinity.
I moved to within less than a foot of her, standing by her side, leaning against the car, arms crossed over chest, my groin subtly jutting out.
Whenever she wished to stress a particular point about how men “are,†she pointed at me, slapped me, or slugged me. Being someone who’s never struck a woman in my life, I merely stood there, silently absorbing the blows.
The scene reminded me of something I’d read in a class I’d taken at the University of Nebraska, dealing with early feminist literature, pre-1600 or something, an 11th-century morality play featuring a duchess and her servant. It was in medieval French, practically a foreign language, and the monologue--because only the duchess spoke--lasted almost four hours.
It features the duchess sitting at a table writing a letter and talking to the audience, castigating the male race--his being, his character, his habits, his anatomy, his doubtful uses, and whatever other grievances women in France in, say, 1087, had against men. The servant is a man who stands beside her, as she pokes and jabs and strikes him whenever she wishes to stress a certain point.
The duchess is clothed, but the man is naked, full frontal nudity so the duchess can point out the silliness of his parts, and he has to stand there without moving, even when she hits him.
They were bawdier back then, than we are today.
The dominant-submissive roles are Freudianly clear, of course.
It’s a women’s-libber’s wet-dream, this ancient play.
However, it has two possible endings, depending upon the sympathies of the audience. In one, she kills him; in the other, he seduces her.
- - - - - - - - - -
Since I was by her side, instead of in front of her so I could see her face so as to “hear†her, I had no idea what she was saying to the audience; Romeo, the sixteen exposed tremoring jugs, and the six still-covered angry jugs. It was obviously a pretty good anti-men diatribe, and she slapped me to make special points about our perfidies.
But a most alarming thing began happening, as I watched her, her massive jugs shaking and convulsing in righteous indignation as she spat out invectives against the male race.
A part of me had originally been pointing downward, in a flaccid state, but watching those jugs shake-rattle-rock-and-roll, it slowly began rising, like a piece of artillery being winched upward so as to aim at things in the sky.
And from where I was standing, everyone but the speaker could see it.
I felt embarrassed; it was like when I first discovered such a thing as a little lad sitting in a pew in church next to my mother, and something inside my pants stiffened. I was pretty young, and utterly entranced by the sight, even more so after I discovered I could make it turn too.
And I made it turn plenty.
Unbeknownst to me, my mother was watching, as were the people in the pew behind us, but never mind.
It’d risen past 90 degrees, and still headed northward, when the angry woman noticed the flittering-and-fluttering jugs watching the show, and looked too.
to be continued
-
“I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU!“ she shrieked, pummeling me, knocking me down to the ground and mounting my midriff, vigorously slapped my face back-and-forth.
That I made no attempt to fight back wasn’t that I was averse to hitting a woman, but more simply because she was stronger than me, capable of pounding me into a red spot in the ground. Although a male, and a tall one, appearances can be deceiving. Because of a fragile infrastructure, it’s rare that I encounter someone who can’t beat me up if he--or she--wished to.
One of the still-covered pair of angry jugs came over and gave her something.
My eyes turned as big as saucers. No, we couldn’t have this.
It was a pair of disposable plastic handcuffs, law-enforcement grade.
Two sets of still-covered angry jugs turned me up into a sitting position, and bound my wrists behind me.
I looked over in Romeo’s direction, to see if he could help.
Nope.
He was also sitting, his wrists cuffed behind him.
But at least they didn’t slap his face, like they did mine.
I was escorted away from the car over to where he was, and rudely pushed onto the ground.
- - - - - - - - - -
We sat there, morosely, watching as both the covered jugs and the bare jugs held a conference, obviously trying to agree on what to do with us.
It made me nervous, really nervous.
I was thinking of historical narratives of Native Americans, both continental Indians and Alaskan Eskimos, in which it’d been described how their women-squaws delighted in sadism and torture of captive white men; how, when it came to cruelty, the warriors fell way short of their women.
There must’ve been some sort of disagreement, because the four pairs of covered jugs got into that car, and drove away.
“Do with them what you will,†they told the eight pairs of wobbling jugs.
It’d been lightly misting, and then lightly sprinkling, when the oratoress had begun her anti-men rabble-rousing and I’d been standing beside her.
They took Romeo first, to a nearby tree, where they re-cuffed his wrists behind the trunk.
Then they came for me; I shuddered when I saw the main woman, the one with whom I’d played, was also carrying a pair of scissors. It didn’t take much imagination to assume what she intended to do with them.
- - - - - - - - - -
Four sets of sashaying jugs walked me over to the back of Romeo’s pick-up truck, pulled down the gate, and shoved me aboard. They cuffed one wrist to one side of the back of the truck, and the other to the other side, compelling me to bend at my knees and squat on the laid-down gate.
The rain was beginning to come down heavier now, and the thronged jugs seemed in a hurry.
The women were camped twenty-five miles away, and it was probably beginning to rain there too, so they had to go. They began hurriedly dressing, but before leaving, the main woman snipped off a few hairs covering Romeo’s male parts, and despite the lack of it, managed to collect a few from me too, which she slipped into two envelopes, probably meaning to press the locks in between pages of a book, as keepsakes.
I thought it was nice she wanted something to remember us by, but…..
They inexplicably blew kisses at us, and left.
Romeo and I were still cuffed, he standing with his wrists bound around the tree, and myself strung to the sides of the back of the pick-up truck, squatting over the laid-down gate. If I tried sitting all the way down, I’d pull my shoulders out of their sockets.
“Damn, damn, damn,†I said, struggling with the cuffs.
“This is a pretty mess we’re in; someone has to come along and take a pair of wire-cutters to set us free.
“And that’s the bitch--someone has to see us. Like this.
“The gossipmongers in town’ll make hay out of this.â€
- - - - - - - - - -
We stood out there in the rain--it wasn’t terribly bad, but our predicament was insufferable--and I was about ready to drop down no matter any hazard to the joints, when help came, in the person of the village idiot riding his ancient bicycle seeking the nearest refuge from the downpour.
The village idiot lives in a trailer house only a couple of miles away, and Romeo’s always suspected him of peeking through the windows at this place whenever Romeo’s entertained company.
He stopped, and stared.
“Don’t just stand there,†I hissed; “get that pair of wire-cutters out of the tool-box and cut us free.
The village idiot looked at me. “I dunno if I want to,†he finally said, in his high-pitched falsetto voice. “You guys are always making fun of me--â€
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, we won’t do it any more,†I said, impatiently; “now get us cut loose.â€
“You’re a good guy,†Romeo added; “we won’t do it any more, if you set us free.â€
The village idiot contemplated the offer, then said no.
“You say you won’t, but you’ll still make fun of me.â€
No, no, no, I said; “I swear, I swear on the Head of St. John the Baptist that if you cut us loose, we won’t make fun of you any more. I swear we’ll say only nice things about you.â€
“We’ll build you up in the public eye,†Romeo assured him.
“I don’t believe you,†he replied.
This was vexing; I don’t know how Romeo felt, his arms being pinioned back for so long, but my knees were aching from having been squatted suspended in air. And too, it was just downright embarrassing, the two of us caught in such positions.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Come on now, be a good guy and cut us loose,†Romeo said.
The village idiot thought of something. “If I do, what’ll you give me?â€
“Anything, anything you want,†I hissed, irritated.
The village idiot chewed on this for a while, and then looked at Romeo.
“I’ll cut you loose if you promise to get me a woman,†he said; “you’re always good at getting women.
“But it’s got to be a special kind of woman, one who’ll hop around in the sack with me, a fat redheaded dwarf with jugs the size of torpedoes. Big torpedoes, the kind used for sinking battleships.â€
“I’ll get you a redhead with jugs three times that size, if you want,†Romeo promised him.
Then the village idiot looked at me.
“I’ll set you free if you promise to give me a thousand dollars,†he said.
to be continued
-
:rofl: Finally, something interesting for the jugs to take offense at.
Well, that's all the porn in this story.
Now, on to the denouement and the end, all of which is "G" or "PG" rated.
A new saga's already in the making, "the rabid terrapin primitive [madinmaryland] visits franksolich."
-
Well, damn.
I tried and tried and tried, every which way, and none of the endings worked; in fact, all of them were lousy.
This of course is something that happens when one writes simply off the top of his head, on the spur of the moment, everything a first draft (I‘m not patient enough to re-write things). But at least I’ve never made any secret that such “stories†are merely casual literary exercises to practice wordsmanship.
Also, the problem might’ve been that my motive was all wrong, as I’d intended this simply and only to be a crude, coarse, vulgar insult to the women’s-libbers on Skins’s island, rather than a tender, warm, mawkish, sentimental, maudlin, saccharine, lovey-dovey story about Big Mo coming to visit here.
My apologies to Big Mo, who should’ve been the subject of the story, but who got tossed away in pursuit of the real goal, that of overtly and purposely offending the women’s-libbers.
I’ll use Big Mo, and probably Skippy, in the future, during which time I hope to focus on them, and not on some grievance against something or someone else. I owe it to them.
But for now, next up is “the rabid terrapin primitive visits franksolich,†and I’m hoping to give “madinmaryland,†for whom I have nothing but the best feelings, a good tale.