Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Thursday, September 27, 2012

A Hard Nut to Crack


I hear him before I see him. His ponderous footsteps shamble up 23 stairs into my office. He pauses at the top, grips the door jamb, and totters. His breath wheezes. It’s Larry. His friends call him Pappy.


He comes by every Friday with vegetables from his garden. Whatever’s in season. On that day it was blueberries. And always eggs from true, free-range chickens. He’s retired from the Postal Service. Unlike certified mail, it’s good news…certified organic! He lives on a small farm outside of West Green, GA. It’s a town so small you miss it if you ride through. You can barely see it if you walk. Even the zip code’s retired.

He plays poker with his pals every Thursday night. I never ask how he does…facial expressions don’t lie. He plops down in the plush leather chair. He pulls a pistol from his hip pocket. It’s dull-black. Menacing. He twirls it carelessly. Says nothing. He has my full attention.

Another bad night?” I ask.

“About the same as usual,” he says.

What’s with the cannon? Murder or suicide?”

Maybe both.”

How much did you lose this time?” Something about pistols in a gambler’s hands is unsettling.

It ain’t the losing that bothers me. Chump change. I’m used to it. It’s just I don’t much like them laughing and slapping their legs when I leave. You know it hurts a man down deep.”

Which one you gonna pop?” I say it with a grin. Pappy’s wound tight. He needs relief.

None of them bastards. It’s my wife,” he spurts. I sit up, take note. This is serious.

I rub my chin whiskers. “Hmmmm.” It’s all I can summons at the moment.

Look at this text I got from her today.” He shoves his cell in my face.

The message reads: “Larry, you dirt bag, your favorite rooster shit on the steps. I stepped in it…again. I told you to do something about this rooster. But don’t worry. I took care of the problem for you. You’ll have roasted rooster for supper tonight.”

Damn, Pappy, does this warrant murder? You’re getting all worked up about nothin,” I hand the cell back.

He growls, “She’s never satisfied. Without that rooster my egg crop will dry up. That boy was a stud, kept me in business now for five years. I loved that rooster. We bonded. He rode with me in the pickup. He was like my son.” He spins the cylinder of the revolver and looks into the pistol chamber. Six silver-tipped .38 hollow points stare back. They’re the shade of his goatee.

“Man, it was just a rooster, for christ’s sake. Get another one. Enjoy your dinner tonight.” My tinny voice sounds like a TV evangelist.

You don’t get it. That rooster could talk. His name was Red. He told me secrets of his hen house exploits. He was a ladies’ man, if you know what I mean.” A faint smile cracks the corners of his goatee. “I learned things. I’ll never find another rooster like Red.” He lays the pistol on the table, fingers its curved pearl handle.

Sounds like he was more than a rooster, Pappy. Maybe he was your repressed alter-ego.” I had read Freud’s notes on repression.

Huh?”

You know, sometimes we have other things that represent something in our lives. You see that skeleton sitting at my conference table? His name’s Lazarus. I consult him on all decisions. All I’m saying is maybe you were living a vicarious life through the rooster.”

“Man, that’s sick. You’re a strange dude sometimes.”

Takes one to know one, buddy.”

"I need advice, now that Red’s gone."

“OK. What’s the problem?”

“She’s mad as a wet hen.”

“Who, your wife?”

You been listening? Of course. She’s fixin’ to be my victim.”

Why’s she mad? All women get mad at husbands. What did you do?”

Forgot her birthday, our anniversary, and I snore. Just to name a few. You got any advice before I fill her heart with lead?”


Let’s consult Lazarus.” We did. He told Pappy exactly what to do. I opened the cabinet and pulled out the Jack Daniels. We both took a slug. Several. The gun went back in his pocket and the smile returned.

I thanked him for the blueberries and offered my condolences on his loss of Red. He left.

Relationships are complicated. Men are like hickory nuts…hard to crack. Forgiveness and saying "I'm sorry" don’t come easy.

Lazarus and I avert another catastrophe, hopeful for a continuation of these free-range eggs. Thank God for alter-egos!

Bud Hearn
September 27, 2012

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