This blog presents a series of short stories, listed below in reverse chronological order.


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I am an Oklahoma academic with an interest in creative writing.

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Tuesday, November 1, 2011

61. Ray the Loser

Settling into my comfy chair in the Study, NPR on in the background, the air outside with a wisp of fall, I was in heaven. Having been back in the heartland for two weeks, I was thrilled to be home, doing nothing that involved travel. It was a Sunday morning, the day that I was most ecstatic to be a couple on, as we just stayed in and did our own thing, no stress, experiencing each others company, silently. And under my blanket, snuggled in with the big fat Sunday paper, life just felt right.
The home phone rang from a far room. 
“Phone!” Thad called from the Kitchen.  
Ignoring him, I instead focused on the op-ed section of the paper: people were more and more frequently talking about the power of Jesus in reference to city politics, which just baffled me.  
“Phone!” Thad called again with a dangerous clang of a pot.
I frowned as I read a Tea Partier’s lecture on the necessity of ‘In God We Trust’ being displayed in City Hall. Norman was turning red as I sat there, and I did not like it one whit.
The phone rang again.  
“Good God!” I hear Thad huff, and then the sounds of him stomping to get the phone and then stampeding toward me.
I tried to look very busy as he burst into the room.
“Did you hear me?” he snapped.
“No,” I lied, but not one of those bad couple lies, more like a good lie; a lie that saves face, saves pain, saves a relationship.
“It’s Becky.” He thrust the phone at me.    
“Thanks,” I smiled up at him, and then into the receiver, “Hey. What’s up?”
He frowned like a cartoon crab and stomped off. 
“What’s wrong with him?” Becky said.
“Wait,” I whispered as I listened for him to regain the Kitchen. Then I whispered, “He’s in a mood.”
“How surprising,” she said. “What is it this time?”
“He had a bad visit with Ma’am,” I whispered. “But he won’t tell me.”
“How’s she doing?
“Not well.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Yeah. So, what’s up?” I asked in my normal voice.
She was silent, then, “Ray’s a dick.”
“What?” I tried not to giggle.
“Ray’s a dick.” She repeated.
“Well, yes, but what brought this on?” I knew that Becky had met Ray up at Mickey Mantle’s Steak House in the City two months ago, and she had not taken Pablo, but she had never said much about it. And as Becky was not someone who succumbed to my badgering, and Mother knew no more, I had been hanging on about who she was going to choose: the Loser Ray or Pablo. 
“I went out with him again last night.” She said. “The first time in Bricktown in July was just weird. I mean, I hadn’t seen him in almost a year. I hardly recognized him. He’s gotten really fat and looked awful. But he was real sweet and, I don’t know, we didn’t have a bad time, but we didn’t really have a good time either. I mean, it was like a work thing, where we were both just real stiff, like we were being interviewed.”
“Yeah, that’s too bad.”
“So we started texting after that, kinda here and there, and he started calling every once in a while, but then he always got mad whenever I had to stop and take care of Pablo, like he was jealous. And I know Ray; he was jealous. But I thought he would, at least let it go since he knows I really love Pablo.”
“Have you told Ray that?”
“Yes, and he just laughed at me, and told me I shouldn’t get attached as the State could just take him away any minute, and then where would I be?”
“That’s a bit much.” I said, wanting to add, ‘The Loser has a point,’ but decided to leave it.
“But I knew he was busy with work,” she continued, “And figured he would take to Pablo once he was around him some, he’s just such a cute little guy and all. And anyway, then Ray asked me out again, for last night, and this time he was coming to Norman.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. And he wanted to meet at the Mont. And I didn’t mention anything about Pablo, and he didn’t either, so I just decided to bring him anyway, and not even ask Ray if it was okay. I mean, I do have a child now if he likes it or not.”
“Yes,” I kept my mouth shut again.
“So Pablo and I got there early and got a table out on the patio and Ray showed-up, and he was just pissed off immediately that I had Pablo with me. He was, like, ‘Oh, I didn’t know you were gonna bring him,’ and ‘You should have told me, I would have brought my dog.’ And he wasn’t awful…”
“That sounds pretty awful. I mean, comparing Pablo to his dog...”
“Okay, yeah,” she stopped. “But he could have been worse.”
“Yeah, but still…”
“I know. And he wasn’t mean or awful directly to Pablo, but he didn’t really talk to him at all. And Pablo was so well behaved, he just sat there and ate his chicken strips, and was really quiet. But I was hoping for…more from Ray.”
“Don’t we always?” Things had been odd with Thad since I got back from Puerto Rico. I didn’t know what was going through his head, but my interest was piqued. But this was Becky’s time, so I kept my story to myself.
“So, what did you do?”
“Well, after dinner Ray tried to kiss me out by the car, and I just pulled away. He smelled like beer and cheap cigarettes and, I don’t know, I just didn’t want to. I just wanted to go home because Pablo was tired and I had to get him to bed. That’s all I cared about. Not Ray, and certainly not being kissed by him.”
“And what did Ray do?”
“He kinda laughed and tried again and I just told him, ‘I got to go…’ and ‘maybe I’ll talk to you later.’ But I could tell by the look on his face he knew what was going on.” She fell silent.
“What?”
 She took a deep breath. “That it wasn’t working, that we need to go ahead and just get a divorce.”
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry,” I said. “But I am so proud of you for standing up for yourself. It’s good because Pablo needs you now.”
“I know." She said with tears in her voice. 
“And I know how hard this is one you, and what a big decision it is, I mean it’s one you have wrestled with for over a year, but at least it sounds like you’ve finally come to a decision.”        
“I know it’s the right thing to do, ” she cried quietly. “Ray just needs to fade away. I know that, but it hurts….”

We talked for the better part of an hour, she sad but hopeful, and finally with clear eyes about the merit, or lack thereof, of the Loser Ray.

62. It Sucks to Date an Alcoholic

 “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me” I said quickly.  
“Michael?” Becky asked. “What’s wrong?”
It was three days after we had the big talk about her and  Ray. I rearranged myself on the bed and tried to think of a lie to tell her. One did not come to me: I hated lying to my sister. “Nothing.”
          “You’re lying,” she said, “Spill it. Is it Mom? What’d she do?”
          “No, no, it’s not Mom.” I said, tight-lipped. I did not want to have to tell her what I was about to tell her. My faced burned with shame, but I had to talk to someone about this, and I knew she wouldn’t be cruel.    
          “Is she on an eating binge again?” Becky asked. “You know every time she comes back from the Dietician and he tells her she can’t eat nuts because of her diverticulitis, she just gorges herself on peanuts and pecans and then can’t stop going to the bathroom for the next three days…”
          “No, it’s not Mom…” and my voice caught.
          “Oh Lord,” she said. “What’d Thad do now?”  
          “Is it that easy to tell?” I laughed softly.
“Yes, after all these years.”
Rolling back over, I took a deep breath. It was early in the evening, but lying on my bed just seemed like the best place to be, as it took the least effort. In the last two days everything Thad and I had - everything - had gone to hell in a hand basket.
“Look, I just need to talk to you,” I said. “But you can’t…”
“I won’t tell Mom.”
“Or anyone else,” I cautioned.
“Or anyone else,” She repeated. “Witches’ honor.”
I started, then stopped, then started again, “He’s had a drinking incident again.”
“Oh, no!” She gasped, and I heard her stand. “I’m so sorry. How long has it been?”
“Fifteen months.”
“That’s terrible. How did you find out?”
Fighting away the nausea I said, “Look, I’ll tell you but you can’t hold it against me, because if you told me something like this, I would hold it against you…”
“Yeah, yeah, well, that’s you…”
“Because you know Thad and I will probably stay together,” I continued. “And that just reflects so poorly on me. And I can’t have you treating me differently or looking at him weird at Thanksgiving.”
“No, don’t worry,” she grunted. “How did you find out?”
“He called from jail.”
“Good God no!” I heard her knock something over “Dammit! There went my Pepsi! I have to get a towel…hold on…”    
As she banged around, grunting and huffing, I looked up at the ceiling and just hated Thad for putting me through this. Hated him. Hated him for what he did and hated him more for embarrassing me now in front of my sister. Surely Becky wouldn’t tell Mom; Becky was trustworthy. But I had to talk to someone, to start the release of the poison inside me.
“Okay, sorry.” Becky said coming back to the phone. “So he called you from jail? And what happened? When was this?”
“Three days ago, Sunday night, the last time we talked. Later that afternoon he went home and he said he had just decided to go get some beer that night…”
“After fifteen months of straight sobriety?”
“Well, fifteen months of straight sobriety that I know of. I’ve been suspicious of him this whole time. He called me once in Puerto Rico and I swear he was drunk, and that’s happened on and off over the last year, but nothing I could prove. So maybe I was paranoid, or maybe not. But this is what I have been afraid of, that he would just fall back off the wagon.”
“Is it off the wagon or on the wagon?”
“Not sure, not important. But he said he went to get some beer and then he drank it and then drove up to the gay bars in Oklahoma City.”
“No! He drank and drove?”
“Yup.”
“Does he go up there often?”
“Never.”
“Then why did he go?” she asked quietly.
This is the part that hurt the most; the rawness of the reality was still red.
“I don’t know. He said to dance, drink, whatever…” I trailed off, knowing what the gay bars were good for when you were drunk and alone.  “And you know he’s done this before, to bad result….”
“When you broke up last time?”
“Yup.” I grimaced, dredging it all up again. “Back when we were dating and living together last time, in 95-96, he did the same thing-got drunk, drove up to the gay bars but he cheated on me then, so we broke up for the next decade and then some, rat bastard. And I’ve hardly trusted him since. And you know that’s been our biggest obstacle since we got back together four years ago: I just don’t trust him and it all goes back to when he cheated on me. And to make it worse, of course he didn’t tell me outright. I had to pry it out of him after a few weeks, and then he didn’t even tell me the whole truth until he got really loaded again and when he finally told me, then I just broke up with him. I mean I had suspected all along, but the reality of it - the cheating - was horrible.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Me too.” I stood to pace. “And he says nothing like that happened this time.  I mean, he said he just went up to the bars to dance and talk to some people but I just don’t know if I can believe him. He lies. He’s a liar. But no matter what, when he was driving back he was pulled over by the Oklahoma City Cops and arrested for DUI.”
“Oh no.”
“I know. It’s his third or fourth. I‘ll be surprised if he still has a license after this.”
“And he called you that night?” she asked.
“No, the next morning. He spent the night in the drunk tank.” I chuckled. “Serves him right. And I wouldn’t go get him.”
“You’re kidding?” she gasped.  “You wouldn’t?”
“No. Hell with him. It was Monday morning and I had a departmental meeting and he was all the way in the City. So I called his Mom and made her go do it.” The thought of that punishment offered me some solace besides the pain I had been wallowing in.  
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“And she went and got him out?”
“Yup. Like she always does…”
We were silent for a moment. I stopped to sit, crushed, knowing she though less of me now; that I was unworthy as I loved someone as base as Thad, and that here - at this moment -she was realizing what a failure I was as an older brother.  
“You know,” she began, “I had been thinking about how paranoid you’ve been about him, about his drinking. I mean, how you’ve still been talking about it and worrying about it. And I really thought it was all just a lot of wasted effort, that it was in your head, and that he was better and all. But I guess he isn’t.”
“It sucks dating an alcoholic.”  I had never uttered a more painful phrase.
“How’s he doing?”
“The rat bastard?” I chortled.
“Yes.”
“He’s fine, I guess. I don’t care. We’ve fought every day since. I just hate him right now. I am ashamed and mortified and don’t even know what to feel. He betrayed my trust by drinking, put himself and others in danger drinking and driving, and then - did he cheat on me again? How am I to know because all I can do is trust him, and of course I don’t trust him! Oh, and he went to jail. Classy, that is.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“Has he drunk again since?” she asked.
“I don’t think so, I mean he said he hasn’t, but who really knows since he lies. He’s a lying drunk.” I laughed to myself. “ The last few months have been great. I mean, I was paranoid and kind of a mess through them-especially when he moved out- but that was nothing compared to what I’m dealing with now-I mean real troubles. But I had even started to trust him some. I mean, I was so sad to leave him when I went to Puerto Rico. And now he’s a lying drunk again, with all those fifteen months, gone. Pouf! We’re back at the beginning.”
“That’s too bad. But at least he’s okay.”
“Yeah, I guess. Have you heard the old joke, ‘How can you tell if an alcoholic is lying?’” 
“No. How?”
“’His lips are moving,’”
She snickered, but in a sad way. “Why do you think he did it, I mean drink after such a long time?”
I lay back down. “I thought about that, and all I could think was that he has been real sad over Ma’am.”
“Did he ever tell you what happened during his last visit?”
“Yesterday he said something about it. Apparent she didn’t recognize him at all and then made fun of his hair in a really mean way, and he had cried all the way back from the City. He said he knew it was just the Alzheimer’s making her crazy, but he wasn’t expecting her to be mean. He seemed so hurt by it.”
 “And you think that did it? That set him off?”
“I guess. I don’t know. He wouldn’t really talk about it, but he never wants to talk about anything serious. He just clams up and sulks.”
“But you two are talking?” she asked, “I mean, have you talked about it?”
“Oh yeah. Twice. The first time Monday night after his Mom sprang him, for me to get the facts of the story straight and the second time, yesterday, to cover my points of disappointment in him. I had a list.”
“Of course you did.”
“Of course I did! And he made fun of me too for having one too, saying, ‘Can’t you even speak from the heart?’ and I just hissed, “I think you’re a fucking whore. That’s what’s in my heart. Do you want to hear anymore that’s in there?’ and he didn’t say anything else about the list after that.”
“Oh my.”
“Yeah. So we’re talking, but hardly. And I haven’t even talked to him all day today. And I don’t know what to do. I’m just really sad, and I just wish things were back to the way they were, back to normal. But that can’t be. And I am just so disappointed in him, and I keep feeling like I’m falling. Like falling and falling and I have nothing to stop me, and everything is hollow around me and I can’t even hardly breathe.” I stopped. “I hate that so much of me is him, especially when he is so terrible.”
“I’m sorry, honey.”
“I know. Thank you,” and for the first time I teared-up. “That’s why I wanted to call you. I was just so sad and didn’t know what to do-if I should call him or not-and I just wanted to just to hear your voice, and I knew you would make me feel better.”
“It’ll be okay.”
“But I don’t know that it will,” I sobbed into the phone.

We talked for two more hours, quietly, this time she calming me.  

63. Luxor

 “Where do you want to go eat?” Thad asked in a forced upbeat voice.
“I don’t know. Where do you want to go eat?”
He screwed up his face and shrugged. “Well, it’s date night Saturday, so someplace nice?”
“Yeah,” I said noncommittally “That sounds good,” and walked into my Study.

It was four days later and I could still hardly look at him. After a monumental fight with him the night that I talked to Becky, I broke up with Thad in a grand and histrionic way that will surely be reproduced by Noh Theatre troops for years to come.  And we stayed broken-up for 55 hours- 55 horrible hours of no sleep and paranoia and rage and ennui. That is until I caved in last night, afraid I was overreacting, and called him back in a complete panic to make-up and to get back together.
So things had supposedly gotten better, as we were still a couple but then there was the problem that we were still a couple and that he was still an alcoholic who had  drunk and drove to the gay bars and got thrown in jail for it. And to top it off, after we got back together last night, he didn’t want to see me, instead he said he already had plans with Bettina, which left me glad we had made-up, but then livid and paranoid and jealous since I couldn’t see him immediately and that he had -again - chosen her over me.   
I had picked him up this morning, it now Saturday, and we had garage sailed some, but neither of us were into it. We just came back to the house and went to our separate corners, he to watch TV in the Den and me to brood over my computer in the Study. A home OU football raged outside, cars and people and crimson and creme everywhere.  

I had no idea what to do. I loved him and wanted to stay together, but this was big. He was an alcoholic. A big, nasty dumbass alcoholic and I was going to have to realize that there was nothing that could change that. He had been better, but I guess I was going to have to accept these falls, these terrible, terrible, crushing falls, as part of our life.   
But the drinking wasn’t even the worse of it. The worst of it was that he had gotten drunk and went to the gay bars. And I wanted to trust him, that nothing had happened, but I didn’t trust him because of all of our past, so that was that. And my paranoia was having a heyday imagining the Karma Sutra of sin he revealed in up there, all before his magnanimous fall to arrest.
Shame. Hatred. Scorn. Terror. Wrath. Vengeance.  

I heard him coming and tried to calm down.
“Hey!” he said sticking his head in the door. “Guess what?”
I wanted to say, ‘You are a completely horrible human being who doesn’t deserve me, and the only reason you’ve never committed suicide is because you are incapable of finishing anything.’ But I did not. Instead I said, “What?”
“Guess who Bettina is going on a date with next week?”      
“Who?” I said, trying to sound human.
“Oliver!”
“Really?” I said, actually caught off guard. And then to snap back, “That’s really stupid, he’s gay.”
“Yeah, I told her that, but she just wants a nice free meal, so she demanded Legend’s.”
“Well, I wish them the best.” I looked back to my computer.
“I’ll water the porch plants.” He said to no one in particular.
“Great, thanks,” I did not look back up.
He was trying; I just hated him for it. This was to be our day to get back into our groove, to get back to being us, but I just wasn’t feeling it. When we were breaking up the other day he had screamed at me, ‘I can’t live in your bubble. That’s your life-your expectations. Not mine!’ I had thought about this, but didn’t really know what he meant. I mean, my bubble was a good bubble, a good life. Why wouldn’t he want that? He just didn’t know he wanted it yet. He was at fault.
He exited the room silently.

Fifteen minutes later he walked back in to hand me the mail.
“Thanks,” I said not looking up. I wanted him to be punished for a long time, punished in a remarkably abstract kind of way that was illegal in seventeen states; that could feature in a Saw movie; that would even disturb the Marquis de Sade’s dreams. I wanted him punished like no other. Punished till he knew how bad I hurt inside.
He walked out and I fished through the mail to find junk and bills and a pink and gold post card. The picture on the front was of the Las Vegas Luxor hotel. My breath caught. I flipped it over and immediately recognized the slanted cursive handwriting of my father.  

Michael-
Hello. Got your letter. Glad to hear that you and Rebecca are well. Would like to talk to you both. I am sorry it’s been so long.
My phone number is: 702-798-5595. 
                                                          Love, Charles
         
I just sat there, stunned. What a day to get this! I could hardly focus but I made myself, rereading it. It was like my father was talking to me, just to me, there for the first time in 33 years. I could still hear his voice, or at least the voice I always remembered as his. The tears came quickly. My father wanted to be part of my life again, and I could not be happier. Tear for him and tears for how terrible Thad was came all at the same time.  
Thad stuck his head back in. I looked down, rubbing my eyes.  
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“I just…” and then I remembered that I had not told him about the letter, about writing to Dad, and felt ashamed. Now who was the liar? But then I thought about it: he did not deserve it then and certainly not now. He did not need to be part of this now, not with what he had just done to me. “Nothing.” I slid the postcard away.
“Okay. You sure?” he said seriously.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
“Are you going to forgive me?”  Thad asked sternly, coming into the room. “Or are you just never going to let me in again?”
“What?” I feigned. “You know we’ve only been back together for a day. What you did was terrible.”
“I know and I apologized.”
“Again.”
“Yes.”
We stared at each other with pure unadulterated hate.
“I read the postcard,” he said. “I’m sorry for what I did- I am so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. But we are still a couple and I didn’t even know you had written your father, and now he’s writing you back and you’re not even going to tell me about it? You’re just going to push it away and not tell me?” It was Thad’s turn to tear-up, which never, ever happened, and sobered me right the Hell up.
“No, it’s just…” I started, looking down at the postcard half hidden under my keyboard, and then I just lost it. “I’m just so sad.”
“I know.” He said, coming over to put his hand on my shoulder. “I am sorry. I fucked up. It was a fluke. It really was.”
“And other than this you’ve been sober for this whole time?” I said, trying to regain my composure.
“Yes, I swear.”
“And nothing happened up in the City? There was no cheating?”
“No, God, no. I just went up there to dance. I was drunk, I wasn’t even thinking…”
“You know I can’t believe you, I can’t trust you at all because you’ve done exactly this before-and cheated on me…”
“I know,” He said wiping at his eyes, “I know. And I know that I’ve apologized for that before, but you have to believe me this time. I am telling the truth. I got drunk and drove up there and got arrested on the way back, but nothing else. I am so sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”
He cried harder than I had seen him cry in years, and it god-damn melted my heart.
“You weren’t even going to tell me…” he sobbed, pointing at the postcard.
Rising, I hugged him.
“I’m sorry…” he sputtered.
“I know, I know, baby.”
“Mom is taking my car away.”
“You’re kidding!” I said, genuinely surprised. It had been impounded, and he had not gotten it back yet, but I just assumed it was on its way.
“Nope. She told me Wednesday. No more car. They can’t keep me on their insurance. Plus I might lose my license, anyway, what with the DUI.”
‘Serves you right, you know.”
“I know,” he wiped his eyes. “So I’m not going to have to be catching a ride with you for a while.”
“That’s fine. We can work it out.”
“It’ll suck.” He paused, and looked up at me. “I hate to cry. You know I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
Wiping his eyes, he looked over at my desk. “Now, are you going to tell me about the postcard?”

So I did. I pulled it out and handed it to him and told him about writing to Dad. Thad and I talked about how exciting it was that I could call him now, and maybe see him sometime. And how happy that would make Becky, and also told him about Becky’s decision to kick Ray the Loser to the curb and keep Pablo, and Thad was happy for her for that.  
And as we sat and talked, we held hands and it felt good, now not great, but right, and I really, really wanted to believe him this time.  

64. The Garden Rapist and the Fullness of Time

          Later that afternoon, with the kink over Thad starting to be replaced by the sudden bubble of joy over my father’s postcard, I realized there was something I needed to do; a score that needed to be settled. The universe had just shown me a mitzvah in the midst of my emotional desert, so now I needed to repay that. I now need to do some good to prove that I still could. And maybe, just maybe, this blackness of life would turn around for me.     
          I told Thad that I was just going to run up to the bank to get cash for tonight, but instead drove straight to the Farmer’s Market.

          Inside, the country folk hawked their wares in a Nashville cum Currier and Ives kind of way. Shame still in my heart from the last time I dared dim these doors with my presence, I kept my eyes down and power walked though. As I passed, men held up NASCAR shirts and ladies waggled purses made from tin cans and yarn at me. I kept my eyes down and did not stop until I saw her: the Garden Rapist.
          She sat at her birdhouse booth with her husband, they cracking and eating pecans out of a tin pail. I took a breath and walked straight up to her.
          “Hi, you probably remember me…” I began, my voice shaking.
          “Well, Michael. Yes, I do.” The Garden Rapist said as her husband stood. She turned and held out her French manicured hand up to him, “Let it be.”
          The husband looked like he might kill me in a quiet hippy way.
          “First off,” I rushed. “I am so sorry about last time. I just had a very sentimental terra cotta chicken planter full of ivy stolen off my porch…”
          “The one you were screaming at me about? The one you said I stole?” she said, one painted on eyebrow arched highly as her tremendous ponytails stood straight out from her head.
          “Yes. I was wrong to accuse you of that. It’s just that it was stolen the last time you were over and I told you I didn’t want to do a flower exchange, and I just assumed it was you because you were mad. But I found out it was some drunk college kids from down the street. So, I had no right to scream at you like that. I over-reacted. I just wanted to come and tell you that. I am sorry.”        
          With eyes wide, the Garden Rapist made a slight grunt and then stood up to join her husband. She looked to him and then back to me.
          I prepared myself for a full psycho explosion.
          “Oh, that’s just fine,” she said, waving at me like the country folk do. “Water under the bridge and all. I figured it was just a misunderstanding. I mean, didn’t I say that, sugar?” She looked back to her husband and he nodded, sitting back down.
          “Oh, good! Good!” I gushed. “I have felt terrible ever since. I’m glad you didn’t take it personally.  I mean, I was just being crazy.”
          “No, no, hon. I figured it was a mistake.” She reached over and slapped her husband on the hand.  “Didn’t I say that? I said, ‘that boy’s gone and got things all messed-up.’ Didn’t I say that?”
          The husband nodded and ate another pecan.
“Well, good,” I said. “I just didn’t want there to be any hard feelings or anything….”
“No, no, naw. Not at all.” 
“Good, good.” I smiled, relieved she hadn’t climbed over her folding table and stabbed me with her big silver gardening fork, which I’m assuming she always kept around for just such emergency killings.
“But you know what you could do to make up for it?” She had a twinkle of the old crazy in her eye.
“What?” I asked, knowing what was coming. 
“We could still do that flower exchange you talked about. It’s about time to plant the spring bloomers.”
“Sure,” I smiled honesty, having already emotionally prepared myself for this inevitable outcome. “It’ll be my pleasure. You can drop by any time you want, even if I’m not there…”

For the next half-hour we continued to talk gardening and about the recent drought, about irises and daffodils, about how to prune roses, rain vs. hose watering, and the supreme and amazing recuperative power of manure.



_ _


This ends the first cycle of the Frankie Goes to Home Depot stories.