the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich

[franksolich]

note: the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich is of course a work of fiction, but all events and persons described therein are based upon real-life people and happenings out here on the eastern slope of the Sandhills of Nebraska the eight years I’ve lived here.  I don’t have enough imagination to make this stuff up, and so have to “borrow” from actual people and events.

the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich is dedicated, obviously, to the brain-damaged primitive, in hopes that it cheers him during the coming holiday season, but mostly to make amends for that he’d been intended to be the main character, but as the story evolved, the brain-damaged primitive got overshadowed by others, and ended up the most-minor character in the story.

My apologies, but the story wrote itself, and that’s how it came out.

the brain-damaged primitive spends Thanksgiving with franksolich.  As he approached where one turned off from the highway to the two-mile drive leading home, through the driving snow he spotted a motor vehicle sitting by the side of the road, and what appeared to be four primitive-looking people surrounding it.

Geezuz, he thought to himself; Thanksgiving Eve, this highway’s been closed for hours, there’s nobody around to help them, and these idiots are still trying to drive through.  As he got closer, he noticed the rear license-plate advertised New Jersey.

Stopping in the middle of the highway--there wasn’t going to be any other traffic anyway--he got out of his automobile, and walking through the swirling snow approached the stranded travelers.  There were in fact four of them, and they were headed for haven in the big city…..forty-two miles away, nothing in between.

They’d hit a snow-bank, one front tire was flat, and possibly the accompanying tie-rod bent.

And it being the eve of a holiday, nobody was going to come from town, six miles the other way, to fix it for them.

These people had to be put somewhere, until both the snow and the holiday were over.

He sized them up; there was one male, circa 500 pounds, heavily tattooed, and with a nose-ring.  He was identified as a friend of a friend of the other three--who’d been left home in New Jersey because of loose bowels--and obviously their leader.  His name was “Brian.”

There was a second male, circa 275 pounds, with either a bug-eye or a glass eye--he couldn’t tell, because it was getting dark, other than that there was something wrong with the eye--his walrus-mustache decorated with glistening precipitation.  His name was “Doug,” and he too was from New Jersey.

There was a red-haired porcine-looking woman, maybe about 300 pounds, with an upturned snou--er, nose, hugging tightly to herself a lap-top computer.  She said she was from Arizona via Missouri, and that her name was “Amber.”

There was a second woman, with closely-cropped hair, and of thin build.  She told him she was from Colorado and gave her name, but he didn’t catch it, and so let it go.

None of them pleasant-looking people, but they were people, and needed shelter.

- - - - - - - - - -

He proposed that they all come to his place, which was only two miles up the driveway--and the only place for miles and miles around, to get warmed up while they figured out what to do.  

The four of them had a whispered conference away from him, unaware that he couldn’t hear them even if they were right in front of him, yelling.  It seemed a good idea--in fact, it seemed the only idea--but the porcine-looking woman expressed some qualms.

“I dunno,” she said; “he’s a stranger, and we’re out here in the middle of nowhere, and he might be a pervert or an axe-murderer or something.”

“Yeah,” walrus-face agreed; “and there’s the way he talks--this is some real retard here, what with his slow, flat, monotonal voice.  He could be both a retard and a pervert, and those are the worst sorts.”

“But he looks like a nice guy to me,” the fizzy one said, “and despite his voice, a rather good-looking dude.”

Their leader, the bloated obese nose-ring, settled the matter.  â€œWell, even if he’s a pervert, there’s four of us against one of him.  We’ve got to get someplace warm and dry.  I’m about three times his size, you’re”--pointing to walrus-face--”almost twice his size, you’re”--pointing to the porcine-looking woman--”twice his size, and”--pointing to the fizzy one--”you’re about his size.

“He lives alone, out here in the middle of nowhere.  If there’s trouble, I think we could handle him.”

to be continued

[fatboy]

Oh, I really can't wait for you to get to the part when the intrepid franksolich discovers that all 4 of the primitives have the same cell phone number and.... um.. sorry. I'll shut up now and let you continue. sorry.

[delilahmused]

Can't wait for the sequel(s)! This is going to be more than one, right? You need to put all these together in a book.

Cindie

[hillneck]

where's the dealership remote?????????????

[franksolich]

where's the dealership remote?????????????

Damn.

I already wrote the whole entire thing, and was good to go, two chapters each for the next three days, and then you spring this idea on me, sir.

It looks as if I'm going to be devising a new ending.

[franksolich]

They all arrived here safely, although it was a tight fit in a Toyota, even a four-door one.

The four guests were letting down their luggage and taking off their winterwear when the neighbor drove up, in his snow-plough; he was coming to find out if all was okay, and to remind that the turkey was to be started in the oven circa 3 a.m.  His wife had been over the previous day, before the blizzard, cleaning it up, buttering it up, and otherwise getting it ready for roasting.

The situation of the four visitors was explained to him, but alas, no, he didn’t think there’d be anybody around to help until after Thanksgiving dinner the next day.  “It looks as if you’re stuck here until tomorrow afternoon,” he said; “but at least your car’s safe, because there’s nobody, but nobody, out on the roads tonight.”

In the kitchen alone with the host, he said, “I feel for you, dude, having to endure them until then.

“Those are some real winners you got here.

“But I’d keep my eye on the red-haired heavy woman,” he added; “she looks like the type who wants to cuddle, and she’ll hog-tie someone down to get cuddled if she has to.”

“I can handle it,” their host said; “I mean, it’s not like I’m not used to dealing with unpleasant people.”

- - - - - - - - - - -

After the neighbor left, the fizzy one came into the kitchen and looked around.

“There’s nothing in here,” she said, awed.  “This kitchen’s as big as a ballroom, and there’s hardly anything in here.”  She walked around, tapping the items that were there.  “Miles and miles of counter-space, nothing on them, big boxes of cupboards, nothing crowded in them, and--whoa--a hospital-sized four-door refrigerator--oops, there’s lots in there--and a hotel-sized eight-burner range, a table and two chairs, and…..acres and acres of floor.

“How do you live?”

Very comfortably and uncongestedly, he answered.

“You see, this is why the neighbor’s wife fixes the Thanksgiving turkey, the Christmas turkey, and the New Year’s turkey here, rather than at home.  They live in a pretty big and pretty new house, all the modern conveniences, but with four kids underfoot, all under the age of twelve, it’s easier for her to fix everything else if she doesn’t have to worry about roasting the turkey too.

“It’s a 36-pounder this time, because they’re having a lot of people over,” he added, courteously omitting to mention that he too was to have been part of it, but these unexpected guests put a kibosh on that.

“Here, we have a 14-pound turkey breast, white meat only, and all the other accoutrements, so we’re good.”

- - - - - - - - - -

He then went into the living room, to check up on the other three guests.  The porcine-looking woman was walking around in circles, flailing her arms. 

“There’s nothing here,” she shrieked, although not too loudly.  “There’s nothing here, not even a television or radio or stereo or…..anything.  Just a little bit of furniture, lots of books, and pictures on the walls and acres and acres of carpeting with nothing on it.  Such a big house, and nothing in it.

“How is it possible to live here?  There’s nothing here; your computer doesn’t even have a sound system.

“You can play tennis here in the living room, or over in the dining room, or in the bedroom, without having to move anything, because there’s hardly anything in this whole house.

“And all these windows--there’s more windows than walls, all around, there’s more glass than lumber.

“And not even window-shades, everything all wide open.”

He interrupted, apologizing.  “There were shades when I moved here eight years ago, but as I always associated pull-down window shades with poverty, I took them out.  I meant to get some venetian blinds or curtains at the thrift store in the big city, but never got around to it, leaving the windows bare.

“But we’re out in the middle of nowhere,” he insisted; “there’s nobody around to peek inside anyway.”

“You might as well be homeless,” the porcine-looking woman said, hugging her lap-top computer to her sagging jugs.  “There’s nothing in here.  How do you live?”

He arched his eyebrows, looking out the window, where the snow was still cascading down, the wind howling, and the temperature surely near zero.

“Well, at least it’s warm” he said, still apologetically.

- - - - - - - - - -

At 10 p.m., he announced to his guests, “Well, time for me at least to hit the sack.  You guys can stay up and continue on what you’re doing [they were all drinking beer from the refrigerators in the garage, and chitchatting, none of which he could grasp], and it won’t bother me.”

There was however the question of sleeping arrangements.  He offered the bedroom to the two women, suggesting the three men could sleep in the living room, although he winced at the idea of being near--and asleep--the nose-ringed one.

However, that was no problem at all, as the women immediately insisted upon being with their men, not separated from them.

So he went to the bedroom.

- - - - - - - - - -

“You know, he’s really an odd one,” walrus-face said; “he acts like he knows what’s going on, but if you look closely, he has no idea, no idea at all, what’s going on; he‘s in a wholly different world all by himself.  He's so spaced I'll bet he's on drugs--I wonder where they're at here.”

“Yeah, like a blind man who acts like he can see,” the porcine-looking one said.

“Or a deaf man who acts as if he can hear,” the obese nose-ring said.

to be continued

[obumazombie]

What's this ? I thought I was inviting Doug over for thanksgiving.

[franksolich]

What's this ? I thought I was inviting Doug over for thanksgiving.

Well, we'll see what happens.

Mention of the remote control for the television, about which I'd forgotten, put a speed-bump into the story.

The story was wholly written, all done, ready to be posted a bit at a time.  I didn't have to think to write it; I just sat down, and the fingers automatically bounced across the keyboard.

But damn, the remote control's got to be worked in somewhere.

Or perhaps maybe not; there's a chance I'll just continue posting the story as it was originally written, minus that irksome little detail.

[Dori]

Well, we'll see what happens.

Mention of the remote control for the television, about which I'd forgotten, put a speed-bump into the story.

The story was wholly written, all done, ready to be posted a bit at a time.  I didn't have to think to write it; I just sat down, and the fingers automatically bounced across the keyboard.

But damn, the remote control's got to be worked in somewhere.

Or perhaps maybe not; there's a chance I'll just continue posting the story as it was originally written, minus that irksome little detail.

You can just throw it in there in passing.  Maybe after you went to bed he turned on your tv and programed FOX out of the channel  lineup.

[franksolich]

You can just throw it in there in passing.  Maybe after you went to bed he turned on your tv and programed FOX out of the channel lineup.

As I explained to Chris_, who's my literary consultant, the problems are two: the story wrote itself without any help from me.  All I did was sit down, and the fingers automatically bounced over the keyboard.  Not the least bit of intellectual effort on my part was required for this story.  The story's been done, finished, ready to be doled out.

And then the matter of the television remote control came up.  I'd wholly forgotten all about the remote control, and my fingers didn't remember it either.  No remote control whatsoever in the whole story.

And then someone here--not my literary consultant--suggested the remote control.

Ooops, I and my fingers had forgotten that, and the remote control's an important part of the story of the brain-damaged primitive.  So probably I was going to have to insert the remote control somewhere in the story.

Problem, however.

If in real life, I really had a television here, it'd be easy to somewhere, somehow, insert a remote control into the story.  But I don't have a television here.  And this story, while fiction, is based upon real-life people and real-life experiences (although at different times, and not necessarily in the same order).  I can't seem to insert a remote control into the story without having it stick out like a sore thumb that doesn't belong there.

If the story had been written describing the primitives and their host franksolich going somewhere--someone else's home, a shopping mall, a store--where there would logically and reasonably be a television, a remote control could be worked into that.

But the story takes place only inside the home of franksolich, nowhere else.

At present, I'm leaning towards just continuing to post the story without changes--and remember, it's all already done--and no remote control.

We'll see how it goes.

The third chapter's been ready to be posted, but it needs some toning down, and so I'm working on softening it a bit, to make it fit for a family audience.  As it now stands, I'm sure it would incite every gay primitive to eagerly hightail it here for Thanksgiving, and I don't want that.  Fat Che's little brother's "husband" is more than enough gaiety for it.

On the other hand, for many short stories here, lurking primitives vastly outnumber decent and civilized people in the audience--some of the Mrs. Alfred Packer stories, they were 6-to-1, it not more--and so one's torn between illuminating the primitives or entertaining decent and civilized people.   

[Skul]

There are a lot of toys out there, with remote controls. 

[franksolich]

There are a lot of toys out there, with remote controls. 

Yeah, but unfortunately they're toys with which I'm not familiar and so aren't here, meaning I can't credibly write about them.

I think I'm going to ditch the idea of using a remote control, and carry on with the story as it wrote itself.

But then another--but a very short one, though--speed-bump was hit, when the fizzy one's husband was apparently fired today.  In the upcoming third chapter, the fizzy one's the main character.  In case one's forgotten, the fizzy one's the primitive who likes to run around inside her house with no clothes on.

Well, this happened, her husband getting fired, and the third chapter had the fizzy one as the butt.

Bering a nice guy, I had to quickly turn things around, making myself the butt of the chapter, so the primitives can't whine that franksolich "picks on" them.

<<<a good sport; doesn't "pick on" primitives.

[Skul]

Yeah, but unfortunately they're toys with which I'm not familiar and so aren't here, meaning I can't credibly write about them.

I think I'm going to ditch the idea of using a remote control, and carry on with the story as it wrote itself.

But then another--but a very short one, though--speed-bump was hit, when the fizzy one's husband was apparently fired today.  In the upcoming third chapter, the fizzy one's the main character.  In case one's forgotten, the fizzy one's the primitive who likes to run around inside her house with no clothes on.
Well, this happened, her husband getting fired, and the third chapter had the fizzy one as the butt.

Bering a nice guy, I had to quickly turn things around, making myself the butt of the chapter, so the primitives can't whine that franksolich "picks on" them.

<<<a good sport; doesn't "pick on" primitives.

I ain't sayin' squat. Nope.

[franksolich]

After their host went to bed, the four guests sat around the dining room table a little while longer, and then decided to hit the sack themselves, the “sack” in this case being three single-bed mattresses placed side-by-side, amply covered over so there wouldn’t be any gaps.

But since nose-ring took up much of it, the fizzy one retreated to the couch.

The porcine-looking one wanted to cuddle, and so cuddled with walrus-face.

The snow had stopped falling, although one could see through the windows that it was very cold out there.

The moon, the stars, and the blinking light atop the William Rivers Pitt, and that there were no coverings on the windows, and further that the walls of the living room were mostly enormous windows, made it not quite totally dark, but the porcine-looking woman was uncomfortable anyway.

“I’m scared,” she said, cuddling even tighter to walrus-face.  “I’m scared.  We shouldn’t be here.  That framed picture of George and Barbara Bush over on the wall there bothers me.

“And that cross, hanging over the thermostat; this guy’s a freaking Christie, a fundie. 

“I should’ve never left Tucson to chase my dream.

“I’d feel better down there with my luvvie Dave, my huggie-bundie Dave.

“My soft cuddly teddy-bear Dave.”

The nose-ring, tired of her whining, smacked her on the side of her head, knocking her out, enabling everybody to get to sleep.

- - - - - - - - - -

About 3 a.m., the host got up to go into the kitchen and put the turkey in the oven; about an hour later, while he was bending over eyeballing the turkey in the oven, he sensed a shadow in the semi-darkened kitchen, and stiffened; oh my God, I hope it’s not the nose-ringed one, he thought.  Or worse, the porcine-looking one wanting to cuddle.

He relaxed when he stood up and turned around; it was only the fizzy one, standing at the doorway, staring.

It being too late to establish eye-contact, as hers were riveted on something else, he instead nonchalantly walked over to the kitchen table and took a cigarette and the lighter.  The lighter must’ve been low on fluid, as he shook it vigorously, but the flame wouldn’t stay lit.  Giving up, he walked back to the stove and turned on a burner to light the cigarette.

Well, he thought to himself, at least she’s only surprised, not offended.

And besides, with her short-cropped hair, it was easy to “see” her as just another guy, no big deal.

He decided to play it cool.  He pointed to the faraway door to the bathroom, thinking that’s what she wanted, but it wasn‘t.

“So…..” he said, “I hope you slept well.  I’m sorry for the rough accommodations, but it beats sitting in a car.”

That didn’t elicit a response, so he pointed out, “As soon as this turkey’s done in here, we’re going to start the one for our dinner, unless you think it’s a good idea to roast them both at once.”

She wasn’t hearing him.

“At least the snow’s stopped,” he said, looking out the window.  Crossing his arms over his chest so the hands touched the shoulders opposite, he added, “But brrr, it’s still pretty cold out there.”

He walked over to the coffee-maker on the counter, only a couple of feet away from her.  “However, you being from Colorado, you’re probably more used to it than we are here.

“Want some?” he asked, pulling out a second cup.  She nodded, but didn’t say anything.

He gave her the cup, and pointed to the cream on the table across the room.  She went over there and sat down.  He followed her to get a second cigarette, and then went and stood by the stove, facing her, his arms crossing his chest.

“I figure what’s going to happen,” he said, “is that one of the mechanics from town’ll come out, oh, about three o’clock, to drag your car out and look at the damage.  If it’s only a flat tire, he’ll probably fix it on the spot, but if it’s a bent tie-rod too, he’ll have to drag it into town to the garage.

“He keeps a full supply of parts on hand, and it shouldn’t, at the most, take more than a couple of hours, and then you can be on your way to the big city.”

He decided to smear more butter on the carcass in the oven, but when he bent over in front of the opened door, the warmth blasting out swelled him, and so he quickly turned, so she wouldn’t see.  Slamming the door shut, he sidled over to the counter and looked out the window, his back turned to her.

“It’s not quite ready for more butter,” he said, after which passed half a minute or so of silence.

- - - - - - - - - -

“Why are you naked?” she finally asked.

It now being safe to turn around, he shrugged.

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “Since it was so early, I didn’t think anybody would be up.  It’s purely an accident, not meant to happen.  But what’s been seen can’t be unseen, so…..here we are.

“Does it bother you?” he asked.  “I mean, I’m not going to touch you or anything, and I’m outnumbered and outweighed by the four of you.  I can guarantee I’ve got no malicious motives.”

No, it didn’t bother her, she said; “Your house, your rules.”

He heaved a sigh of relief.  She didn’t feel threatened, which was the last thing he wanted.

However, he was somewhat discombobulated that she gave no suggestion she’d be more comfortable if he went and put something on.  It was if she found it interesting, which was another last thing he wanted.

“Well, it is interesting,” she said; “I’ve never seen a naked Republican before.”

In an exaggerated act of feigned shock and dismay, he crossed his hands over his front part, acting surprised to find they wouldn’t cover it all.

“I sleep this way, but usually only when I don’t have overnight company.  But you’re hippies, that ‘let it all hang out’ thing.  You guys run around without clothes on all the time, and in public.

“Surely you’re not seeing anything you haven’t seen before, what with all your wild raucous love-ins and be-ins and sit-ins and drop-outs and rock concerts.

“It saves wear-and-tear on the underwear, and besides, even here, in the reddest part of one of the reddest states, we’re not prudes.  It‘s just that we don‘t do it with reckless abandon, like they do in blue states.

“I’m way out in the middle of nowhere; nobody’s around to be upset or offended--”

“But don’t you worry about if--” she began.

“Sure, it happens a few times,” he interrupted, not wishing to let her know it actually happened quite a lot, “that someone who I didn’t know was around pops in, but it’s cool.  But it’s never ancient people or respectable women or children, because they’re all sleeping in bed at the time.

“Most of the time, it’s somebody I know, who‘ve seen it all before.”

“But they all can’t be people you know,” she insisted, “and you’re out here all alone.  Hasn‘t anybody ever tried to, you know, rob you and attack you and stuff?

“There’s some vile people out there, and here you are, with nothing on.”

“Oh,” he said, “there’s been a few times one’s had to deal with rough characters in the middle of the night, all drunk or crazy on drugs, looking for a fight, three or four of them all at once, and alas each of them bigger and stronger than me.

“But something usually happens, and they run away.

“The sour-faced guy who cooks at the bar in town, Swede, says I’m the luckiest son-of-a-bitch he’s ever seen in his life, and this is one of the reasons why.

“I only get worried if it’s women high on drugs or booze or from a trailer court or otherwise the trashy sort, who get ideas I don’t want them to get. 

“You can tell them right away; you can see them reeling out the measuring tape in their eyes.  No way in Hell, any of these women.”

Thinking he might’ve given her the wrong impression, he added, “I’m already spoke for.

“By a femme--so nose-ring out there can shelf it.”

“But haven’t you ever been embarrassed?” the fizzy one asked.

Oh my yes, he thought, too many times to count, but to relate those would require him to reveal to the fizzy one that he was deaf, and he didn’t want to do that, so he lied, “No, never, not once."

The three others in the living room began to stir--he caught the movement of shadows through the door from the kitchen to the dining room--so he decided it was time to get decent, especially since he didn‘t want them to get any ideas.

And then coquettishly flaunting it all, just as he did long ago in the boys’ locker room in high school to the accompaniment of others snapping towels, he strutted past her into the bedroom to get dressed.

- - - - - - - - - -

The neighbor arrived in late morning, aboard the snow-plough, bringing with him an empty 60-quart thermos cooler, in which to cart the cooked turkey, partially cut up, back home.  While he and the host were in the kitchen, he mentioned there wouldn’t be anybody available to fix the stranded vehicle until after mid-afternoon, it being Thanksgiving and all that.

The neighbor brought along his oldest son, the 10-year-old eager young lad, who stood in the living room staring at the jiggling jugs of the porcine-looking one, wondering if they were real or not.

“Did the guests behave last night, no problems?” the neighbor asked.

Yeah, no problems at all, their host said.  “As easy as strawberries-and-cream, dealing with them.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Since the fizzy one looked as if she might be competent in the kitchen, while the porcine-looking one seemed as if she couldn’t even handle a wet fork and a dry dish-towel competently, he assigned the first to the kitchen, showing her all the equipment and chow, and ignored the second femme, who sat on the couch in the living room, typing on her lap-top computer.

The one-eyed guy and nose-ring sat at the table in the dining room, watching the snow fall on the other side of the picture-windows, drinking beer from the refrigerators in the garage, and gabbing.  Probably about college football, he figured, unable to hear them, although nose-ring could be discerned staring from the corner of his eye at his host’s lower regions.

Geezuz, his host thought; I should’ve put on boxer shorts and too-big pants so he wouldn’t get any ideas, as the jerk‘s a professional crotch-scanner, who can detect through regular underwear and regular-sized pants, no matter how thick the material.

He didn’t care for people looking at what wasn’t supposed to be looked at; it gave him a sense of being violated, much as if someone were to lift his hair and see he‘d been born without ears.

While the fizzy one prepared the breast of turkey, the mashed potatoes, the gravy, the fresh corn and fresh peas, the whole-wheat buns and real butter, the sour cream, and the apple, pumpkin, cherry, and rhubarb pies, he got ready to set the table in the dining room, but prudently using only the second-best china (a wedding present in 1910), silver (an anniversary present in 1935), and Belgian linen and napkins (from the 1920s), which had belonged to grandparents of his, rather than putting out, as he usually did, the more-exquisite and fragile antiquities of his great-grandparents.

But first, the table had to be set up.  The table was solid walnut, one of those dining sets sold mail-order by Montgomery, Ward in 1926 for $140 (an enormous amount of money back then), and with extensions.  It was usually set up so as to accommodate eight, three on each side and one at each end, but as he reminded everybody, there was going to be plenty of food, and so the table needed lengthening.

Pulling the table apart, he took three leaves and four extension legs, inserting them into the gap, making the table so as to fit in eighteen, eight on each side and one at each end.

And then he assigned the places to sit; the porcine-looking woman at the far end, nose-ring on her side to the left, walrus-face on her side to the right, and the fizzy one next to walrus-face. 

For himself, he assigned the end opposite the porcine-looking woman, seemingly half a football field away, and a large ornate 32-taper sterling-silver candelabra in between.

to be continued

[franksolich]

Somebody paid me a probably undeserved compliment, saying I write like this guy, about whom I've never heard:

Patrick Francis McManus (born August 25, 1933) is an American humor writer, who primarily writes about the outdoors. A humor columnist for Outdoor Life, Field & Stream, and other magazines, his columns have been collected in several books, beginning with A Fine and Pleasant Misery (1978) up through The Horse in My Garage and Other Stories (2012).

McManus writes mostly about his outdoor adventures from his childhood with semi-fictional characters such as his old woodsman mentor Rancid Crabtree and his childhood friends. The stories' humor is mostly based on elaborate exaggerations of his surreal adventures into the outdoors. McManus's writing is characterized by a dry wit that has drawn comparisons to Mark Twain and Robert Benchley.

McManus' shorter works include a recurring cast of fictitious characters and running jokes, both from the stories set in his childhood and as an adult. The foremost among the childhood stories is his "mentor" Rancid Crabtree, a colorful woodsman who lives near Pat's childhood home, who hasn't bathed because of his fear of getting wet.

Other recurring characters are his childhood best friend, 'Crazy Eddie' Muldoon, and his adulthood friends, the goofy and dim-witted Retch Sweeney and his straitlaced neighbor, Alphonse 'Al' Finley. Throughout the majority of the stories is a recurring theme of McManus's lifelong love of hunting and fishing—which is mostly an excuse to just enjoy the outdoors, often in good company. Most of his friends likewise enjoy hunting and fishing, even if they aren't particularly good at it. McManus, in his stories, has a certain amount of disgruntlement for people who take great pleasure in the minutiae of various sports (such as encyclopediac knowledge of firearms calibers and ballistics). He refers to firearms enthusiastics as 'gun nuts' and treats their excited sharing of the fine points of ballistic arcs and grain sizes as something to be endured to get on a good hunting trip.
 
Some of the elements show up in his longer works, and are even worked into the plots. Bo Tully, the protagonist of the Bo Tully Mysteries, shares McManus' views about firearms—in the course of his job as Sheriff and his hobbies, Tully uses guns, knows about guns, but isn't particularly excited by them or even sentimental towards them. He is, however, aware that many people are.

This even serves as plot point in one of the Bo Tully mysteries, Tully is investigating an absent murder suspect and sees that the man has a gorgeously mounted collection of antique, original, or unusual firearms—with a gap in it that would correspond to the type of handgun used in a murder. Tully realized it's likely that an ardent gun collector would be reluctant to destroy or permanently discard such a gun, and operates on the hunch that the murder weapon is hidden nearby and carefully preserved to prevent possible damage.

I wish.

[franksolich]

While he was laying out the plates and silver, the porcine-looking woman, curious, came to inspect the candelabra placed in the center of the table.  It was a big, bulky thing for holding thirty-two candles, and sterling silver.

It wasn’t his; he’d found it in the cellar when he’d first moved here eight years ago, cleaned it up and untarnished it.  It belonged to the owners of the property, even if they’d forgotten they’d even ever had it, but he assumed it was his for use while he lived here.

“Isn’t this what Jewish people use on a certain holiday?” the porcine-looking woman asked; “that holiday where they light up candles and stuff?  I didn’t think you were Jewish.”

Yeah, he said, not particularly interested in correcting the record.

“But you have it in the middle of the table, blocking the view from one end to the other; can’t you put it somewhere else, so that we can see you, and you can see us, while we’re eating?”

He winced.

“Blocking the view” was precisely his intent, as his guests didn’t seem the most-refined of company; they probably talked with their mouths full of food, and even sprayed it.

This had been a bane of his all his life, because he was compelled to read lips to help “hearing,” and what he’d seen since he was a little lad were things that made his eyes cross and his face turn green.  Chewers of tobacco, methamphetimine users, epileptics who used a certain drug, and others with bad teeth for one reason or another, presented the same problem.

He never wished to be unkind, but really, it all made his eyes water and his stomach queasy.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d just been left alone, but his parents were set on integrating him into society even though he was deaf, and so it was mandatory that he join conversations at the dinner-table, as if nothing was wrong.

By the time he was ten, he’d probably seen the insides of more mouths than dentists, and it’d never been a pretty sight.  Especially not when one was dining.

That was the age when he finally rebelled, and started reading at the dinner-table, his face buried in a book as others around him chitchatted, ostentatiously showing off their various masticatory propensities.

He’d gotten away with it, because there was a rule someone reading wasn’t to be interfered with, and apparently that rule superseded the rule that one was supposed to be social, and converse.

After he’d grown up, he for the most part solved the dilemma by simply associating only with people who didn’t talk while their mouths were full of food.  If it were unavoidable, such as at church dinners or community barbeques or neighborhood pot-lucks, he simply found a seat far removed from everybody else, ate, and after that walked around being social.

But he didn’t want to tell the porcine-looking woman that he suspected she and her pals had bad table-manners, and he was likely to upchuck while eating, if he had to look at them; being a nice guy, he didn’t want to hurt feelings.

Instead, he just told her that the candelabra had to remain where it was, because it was an old Hebraic superstition that if the Hannukah lights weren’t right in the center of the table, the land would become bereft of all meat but pork, and the people would starve.

He was gratified that she found it a reasonable explanation.

to be continued

[franksolich]

After the table had been set, nose-ring and walrus-face came to inspect it; their big bulks had been banished to the living room while the work was in process. 

“And so--what are we going to have for drinks here?” nose-ring asked.

Oh, the usual, he said; coffee, tea, milk, orange juice, water, whatever one wanted.

“Just the usual,” he repeated.

Nose-ring and walrus-face looked at him as if he were Bozo from Outer Space.

“But what about the real stuff?” walrus-face asked.

Their host looked at them blankly.  “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh come on now,” nose-ring said; “the liquor, the alcohol, the booze.  What’re we having, and where’s it at?”

Their host hesitated.

“Uh, it’s not done around here, or in most places in Nebraska.  It’s probably done in some blue-collar lower-class ethnic neighborhoods in Omaha, but for the most part, we don’t do alcohol with dinner.”

They looked at him again, as if he were Bozo from Outer Space.

“People usually drink, but not at the table,” he tried explaining.  “At cocktail parties, at the country club in late afternoon, or beer out on the patio after supper.  But not when they’re eating.”

They kept looking at him, their mouths sagging open.

“And a lot of people just don’t drink at all,” he went on; “when I was growing up, the only alcohol consumed in our house was that on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s, everybody got a crystal custard-cup with chunks of pineapple swimming in crème de menthe in it.

“I dunno where that came from; I assume it’s a custom in Pennsylvania, and the parents brought it with them when they moved here, long before I was born.  I never cared for it, and I don’t have it.

“Now, I don’t impose my practices on others, but I quit drinking when I was in my early 20s--the only member of the family who ever sucked on the bottle--which was, well, a long time ago, and so one’d be hard-pressed to find alcohol here.”

That wasn’t quite correct, as nose-ring and walrus-face already knew.  There’s four big refrigerators in the garage, where the neighbor, the neighbor’s older brother, the property caretaker, and the ranch-hands who work across the road behind the William Rivers Pitt keep their beer, cases and cases of it, so that their wives don’t know how much they drink.

It’s not wholly a carte blanc, but he’s allowed to swipe some of the inventory in case there’s a pressing need, such as intemperate guests who need calmed down.

“Well, there’s beer you can have with your dinner.”

They both snorted.

The femme’s father kept certain wines in a cabinet down in the cellar, meant for special occasions, but their host didn’t know rocks about wine, and was hesitant to illuminate his guests of their existence, lest they hog all the good stuff.

But as they wanted something, he decided he’d check, and try to pick out what appeared to be the cheapest ones; no point in casting pearls before swine.

He told the others he had to shovel the snow off the back porch, and donning his winter garb, went out there, but to go down into the cellar, to the carefully-regulated and super-insulated wine cabinet.

Inspecting the inventory of fifty-three bottles, he guessed at which ones looked to be of Ripple quality, taking five of them.  Because he’d have to explain their absence to the femme, he carefully copied down their names, a bottle of Brunello di Montalcino, 2007, from Poggio il Castellare, a bottle of Puligny-Montrachet les Pucelles, 2010, from Domaine LeFlaive, a bottle of Hermitage Blanc, 2009, from J.L. Chave, a bottle of Le Desir, 2008, from Verite, and a bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape Curvee Perrin, 2004, from Chateau de Beaucastel. 

From their labels, those looked like the crummiest and cheapest wines, maybe about the same quality as Mogen-David, but still good enough for primitives, he figured.

to be continued

[BattleHymn]

Excellent work, frank.  

I'm particularly enjoying the treatment the porcine one receives from you, and from her fellow primitives.  She is the perfect buffoon character. 

[franksolich]

Excellent work, frank.  

I'm particularly enjoying the treatment the porcine one receives from you, and from her fellow primitives.  She is the perfect buffoon character.  

It's funny how it's turning out, the brain-damaged primitive ending up the most-minor character, barely even a cameo role, in a story about him.  But that's just the way it's evolved.

Alas! poor walrus-face!  Alas!  Left in the shadows by others, in a story about.....him.

[Dori]

Alas! poor walrus-face!  Alas!  Left in the shadows by others, in a story about.....him.

I hope Tweak doesn't get loose and get caught in a mouse trap.

[franksolich]

I hope Tweak doesn't get loose and get caught in a mouse trap.

You know, Tweak could've been included, if there were mice around here.

Yeah, right, I live way out in the country, in the Sandhills, in an old house.  There's mice around here.

Uh, no.  I haven't seen a mouse inside or outside since the first summer I lived here, about nine months after I'd moved here and cats started emigrating here, after which each one was shot (the regular feline shots) and neutralized, and domesticated or semi-domesticated.

I dunno why the cats never worked their way into this story; after all, there's been plenty of them (but only five still survive)--Abbie, Snow, Junior, Apricot, Floyd, Spot, Gordon, Harold, George, Ellie, Leo, William, Gustav, Jack, Fido, Agatha, and Larry.

But for some reason, they didn't, despite that the brain-damaged primitive's a fan of "kittehs," and they could've helped enhance his role in his story.

[BattleHymn]

I dunno why the cats never worked their way into this story; after all, there's been plenty of them (but only five still survive)--Abbie, Snow, Junior, Apricot, Floyd, Spot, Gordon, Harold, George, Ellie, Leo, William, Gustav, Jack, Fido, Agatha, and Larry.

But for some reason, they didn't, despite that the brain-damaged primitive's a fan of "kittehs," and they could've helped enhance his role in his story.

Cats are way to suspicious to hang around somebody like walrus-face.   

[Dori]

My kitties used to bring me presents.  Unfortunately, they weren't always dead.  Just half dead.   

[franksolich]

Cats are way to suspicious to hang around somebody like walrus-face.   

Well, there is a problem.

All of the cats excepting Junior, Apricot, and Floyd, were feral cats.  These other three were born in town, about a year before I moved out here.

--Floyd, top, George, below, where I lived before I moved out here

The cats don't cotton to anybody but me.

I wish they would socialize with more people--it'd widen their world--but they hang only with me.

Every time somebody comes here, they watch that person like a hawk, from a safe distance.  It's been remarked by others that the cats appear to think every human is a threat to me, their meal-ticket.

[franksolich]

My kitties used to bring me presents.  Unfortunately, they weren't always dead.  Just half dead.   

That happens, but oddly, there's never any mice.  All other sorts of livestock, but never mice.

The cats have 24/7/365 entry-exit with the house.  One time William killed an adult rabbit and dragged it inside behind my back, eviscerating it on the floor in the bathroom.  I had no idea rabbits had so much guts in them; there must've been at least half a mile of intestines.  All over the bathroom.

Another time, I walked into the kitchen, and there was a semi-quivering snake laying on the floor in front of the sink.  I never did figure out what sort of snake it was; it was about 4' long and as thick around as my upper arm (which really isn't all that thick).  I got pissed off, and picking it up by its tail, went out to the back porch and flung it out into the meadow.  I assume it slithered away okay, because no carcass was ever later found.

For years, when coming back home after having been gone for a while, if someone else is with me, I make that person wait outside until I've first gone inside to scout all the rooms, to be sure there's no livestock, dead or alive, in here.  I'm a nice guy, and the sight of blood and guts upsets some sensitive people, and best to get it out of the way before anybody sees it.