note: this is dedicated to the Reggie the Dog primitive, who thinks he’s really something,, in comparison with franksolich, who thinks no such thing about himself. I don’t know if the three women involved were actually primitives, but they weren’t the usual standard ubiquitous conservative Republican women of the Sandhills of Nebraska, and so if not primitives, something close to it.
franksolich deals with three primitive women. I dunno what it was that woke me up about midnight last night; usually it’s the cats suddenly scrambling around because of some new phenomenon, and that was probably the case here.
When I walked into the living room, I noticed through the large near-floor-to-near-ceiling picture window that there was a motor vehicle parked outside, underneath the large flood-lamp of the front yard. It had the license plates of a county circa fifty miles south of here.
Most people come to this place from the north, as the main highway’s two miles up there, but there is a road that continues south. It’s crumbly asphalt from the highway to here, and then gravel for about five or six miles, and then dirt for about the same length, and then gravel again for a couple more miles until it connects with a state highway, near a small town of circa 400 people, which boasts a 1950s “dance hall†popular for parties and other special events.
This road, which passes right by the base of the William Rivers Pitt on the eastern side, is not much traveled, and when traveled, it’s traveled by people who are drunk or lost, or both.
I went to the front door, which leads from the dining room to the front porch, but those outside seeing someone inside, came in before I could open it. They were three women, circa their early 30s, two of them “happy drunk†and one of them sordidly drunk. They were looking for a restroom.
All of them were plump, too much make-up, too-small clothes, blondes.
As usual in situations involving sudden appearances, I sized them up. They were all shorter than me, and myself being a man, I could probably take on one or two of them at the same time, but I hoped it wasn’t a case of my having to take all three of them at once, in which case I’d be squashed flatter than a one-dollar bill.
But their being liquored up and myself coldly sober, gave me at least a slight advantage.
That advantage however was outweighed by something else; they were dressed for brawling, while I was not.
Now, when one’s in what’s considered an embarrassing or vulnerable situation, one has two choices—either to run away and hide, or to stand one’s ground and act as if nothing’s out of the ordinary.
I learned a very long time ago that the second course is usually the best course.
I stepped over to the computer table, and grabbing a cigarette, nonchalantly lit it.
The three women stood inside the living room, the middle one with one arm on the shoulder of the woman to her right, and the other arm wrapped on the waist of the woman to the left. As earlier mentioned, they were drunk, and probably shouldn’t have been out driving.
The one on the right pulled a sprig of mistletoe out of inside her upper torso.
The one on the left made a reference to the ostensibly aesthetic qualities of my personal self.
The one in the middle was drunk almost to the point of passing out, and simply stared.
The one on the left, who looked like a younger Curly Joe of the Three Stooges, but with hair, asked, “Well, but aren’t you—“
At which I interrupted, having heard it all before. “It’s the middle of the night, and this is my place, and I guess I’m free to be as I wish, in the middle of the night in my own place.
“I’m sorry if you’re embarrassed, but it’s you who walked in on me, not me on you.â€
I pointed in the direction to the bathroom, and Curly Joe and the really drunk one went that way.
I offered the one on the right, the young Elsa Maxwell lookalike, a cigarette.
She said something I didn’t catch, other than that it was a reference to the way I looked.
The other two came back from the bathroom, and the third one, the one with a cigarette, decided she had to use it too, leaving me alone with her co-partiers. The drunker of the two finally said, “I wish my boyfriend looked like you.â€
“I’m sure your boyfriend is perfectly fine,†I coldly assured her.
The third one returned to the dining room from the bathroom, and I said, “Okay, the main highway’s two miles north of here, straight up the road. You turn right to get to town six miles, and then you take the state highway south, to get back home.â€
As they turned to walk out the front door, the one with the mistletoe hoisted it above her head, but I didn’t take the hint.
