421. Conversations at Walmart

I’m always good on a promise. Even to C.W. So when he went a week without making my wife’s head explode, I made good.

It’s one of his favorite things. We go Walmart. He shapes up like a lumberjack or something pretty close to it. We wander the aisles slowly and wait unit we hear a loud conversation, a one-way one. Not by just anybody. It has to be a certain type, a woman with a hoarse voice from a two-pack a day habit, wearing a baseball hat with a ponytail hanging out the back with a tight t-shirt emblazoned with something along the lines of “These Boobs Protected By Barretta.”

Yeah, I wasn’t going to say it, but you can. We have a lot of them around there and, yes, most necks are quite crimson.

So, what C.W. likes to do is sidle up to them as they yell into the phone, lean forward, and listen to the one side of the conversation.

No, it doesn’t work like you would think, not around here anyway. I've never seen one become angry. Occasionally they ignore him. More often, they nod, smile and welcome him into the conversation. We live in a friendly state, after all.

So yesterday was a fun trip, for him. We hadn’t been in the store for five minutes when we heard a sound like a corn-sheller going off, and words emerging from the noise. “Naw, I don’t care. Last time he let me use his pickup after we got done.”

Off we went. We got as near as we could, I pretended to look for Feta Cheese, which is a good way to waste time in Walmart. C.W. moved in alongside a tallish woman with dingy blond hair wearing a shirt with “Think Twice Before You Pat It,” in red spread across the back.” A drawing of two crossed baseball bats emphasized the point.

“Heck no,” she said into the phone. “Hit was for what we done Saturday night. He preaches on Sunday and uses his wife’s car. Only took two minutes, and I got a lot of things hauled off next day.”

She noticed C.W. then, smiled at him and nodded. She tipped the phone in his direction and motioned for him to listen.

“Hell yeah, it was a good swap,” she said. Then she and C.W. both laughed. He moved a little closer.

“Am I what?” Her eyes grew wide. She looked at C.W. and said. “Do I look like I’m ashamed of myself?”

He shook his head in a display of solemnity. “He agrees,” she said. “I got me a witness.”

She and C.W. both nodded and laughed.

“What?” She continued the conversation. “No,” she said into the phone. “Hit came regular as clockwork.” She winked at C.W. “So I reckon ever-thang was okay.” She listened for a moment. “You got that right, Hon,” she said. “I shore don’t need no new crumb-grabber slowing me down.” She looked at C.W. and he nodded. “Bet your sweet ass, though,” she said. “I ain’t using that brand no more.” He nodded in agreement.           

It went on like this for maybe ten minutes. People eased their carts by slowly, enjoying the snippets. I pulled my hat down as far as it would go and pretended to be invisible.

I love making new friends
among the Earthlings. - C.W.

We learned of her latest choice of laxatives. C.W. agreed.

We learned why she cut her old boyfriend off. C.W. agreed.

We learned that she wasn’t going let her daughter “git on them goddam pills until she was at least 14.” C.W. disagreed.

We learned of her plans to get a prescription for what she called “MM.” C.W. looked confused.

We learned that she considered “pollacks” the best lovers. C.W. took this in.

We learned that she wasn’t above one of “them two-on-ones” if she found the right two. C.W. smiled.

At long last, she said into the phone, “We gotta go, Hon.” After listening for a moment, she said, “Hell, I don’t know.” She turned to C.W. “What is your name, Hon?”

“Caspar Wolinski,” he said.

She nodded toward me, “He with you?”

C.W. nodded. I shook my head. Just at that moment, a neighbor I know walked by with one of the Walmart workers.

“Hey,” C.W.’s new friend shouted at the store worker, in her hoarse voice that I’m sure carried onto the parking lot, “Can you point me toward the condoms? And I want the kind that don’t break.”

See also:

Delta Dreaming

All Hat No Cattle

Enjoy these at all? If so, order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers. It will make him so happy. Also, click on an ad. It earns him a little and costs the advertiser, sort of a win-win.

181. Illusions

“Okay, put your card back in the deck.”

I did. He made a big show of shuffling several times, then cutting the deck twice before spreading it on the table in front of us. He waved a hand over the cards in a mysterious fashion and then suddenly plucked one from the deck. He held it up to me.

“Is this your card?”

“Uh, no,” I said.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I’ll be a Kodamflabbugast,” he said, employing a word for the Falloonian units with slow intellects.

“C.W.,” I said. “Why the sudden interest in magic?” I had to admit, he was dressed for the part, tuxedo, top hat, and all.

“Money to be made in illusions,” he said. “Trouble is—I need an assistant.” He slumped and looked toward the kitchen. “Think Mrs. Big Dope might change her mind?”

I said, “I doubt it.”

“Even if I drop the part about the sexy outfit?”

“You’ll have to ask her.”

He thought for a moment and apparently abandoned the idea. I thought it was a good decision.

“So what makes you think there is money to be made in magic?”

He leaned back in his chair and took off his top hat. A pigeon flew from within it and flew to the back of chair. “Your species seems to thrive on illusions,” he said. “I simply thought I would take advantage of it.” He unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket. A small rabbit peeked from inside. “Everyone else does it.” The rabbit nodded in agreement.

“Does what?”

“Takes advantage of your trait of being easily fooled or cheated.”

“Are you trying to say our gullibility?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

I said, “Forget it. Tell me why you think my species is gullible.”

He thought. “For one thing,” he said, “you think reality TV is real.”

I had to agree somewhat. “I don’t,” I said. “But there are some who do.”

“They are the ones who spend money,” he said.

“Maybe so,” I said. “Any other examples?”

“Professional wrestling?”

“That appeal is limited,” I said. “Most folks view it as entertainment. Only a few take it seriously.”

“But they are allowed to mingle, drive, and vote.”

He had me there. My confidence was waning. “Anything else?”

“You used to think you had to sacrifice folks to make the crops grow.”

“Ah,” I said, sensing an opportunity. “But we don’t believe that anymore.”

“But now you believe you have to sacrifice some folks to make the economy grow.”

“But we have our share of educated units,” I said, using his terminology. “They see through things.”

Any species that truly believes making
rich people richer will make poor people
rich someday needs to re-examine
its cognitive capabilities. - C.W.

“Like your supreme public officials appointed to decide cases in a court of law? The ones who believe a corporation is a human being?”

Ouch.

“And I’m not even going to get into the areas of talking snakes and boats full of lions and tigers.” The rabbit shuddered.

“Look,” I said. “Let’s change the subject.” I decided to confess. “That really was my card you picked. I was just fooling with you because I was tired of the magic show.”

“You deceived me for your own ends?”

I sighed and slumped in my chair. “Yes,” I said. “Yes I did. Yes.”

“Well I’ll be a Kodamflabbugast,” he said.

 

The rabbit shook his head in disapproval, then ducked back inside the coat.

97. Obituaries

C.W. looked so proud as he handed me the card. It read, “Awesome Obits Inc.” and included a slogan: “Don’t let your Dear Departed stink in print” followed by contact information.

“What do you think?” he asked.

I just looked at him, fixed up in a beige sport coat, pink silk shirt, blue and red bowtie, chinos, and what I suppose were Gucchis. He looked like a stockbroker on steroids.

“Is this some kind of joke?” I asked.

“Joke, hell,” he frowned and grabbed the card from my hand. “This could be my true calling.”

“Which is?”

“Writing obituaries for distraught families, you know,” he smiled. “The kind your species prints in the newspapers.”

“Would you like a martini?” I asked. “I think I need one.”

“No time,” he said. “Got to deliver product.”

“Product?”

“Sure,” he said. “The orders are coming in faster than I can write them.” He produced some folded sheets of paper from his coat pocket. “Want to hear some?”

I began to consider the question, but he interrupted.

“Listen.” He unfolded a sheet and began to read.

“Politicians should pay attention. There is going to be a real filibuster at the Primitive Believers Baptist Church on Monday as the congregation gathers to win our departed brother, John, “Quickstep” Martin his angel’s wings.” He stopped and looked at me.

I looked back.

“Pretty fine, eh?” he said, handing me another.

Stunned, I glanced at it.

“With a hearty ‘Hi-Ho Silver’ and ‘This should work,’ Bobby Ray ‘Duster Man’ Coogan departed this life Tuesday to be enshrined forever in the National Repository of Aeronautical Statistics. Memorial services will be held at Johnson’s Cotton Gin on Highway 21. BYOB.”

Another followed.

“Those wishing to confirm the demise of Eloise ‘No Bid’ Congleton should plan to attend a brief service at Runyan’s Funeral Home on Friday at 2:00 p.m. Prospective attendees should arrive early as a sizeable crowd is expected for that purpose, a fact which undoubtedly would have caused Eloise to utter her favorite observation, ‘bunch of morons.’”

Then another.

“There will be a new ‘kicker’ in the Celestial Line Dance tonight as our dear sister Margauritte Simpson dons the last new pair of hip-huggers she will ever need. Known to her adult friends as “Whupper” and her high school classmates as ‘C-Cup,’ she will forever be remembered by the Bad Bob’s Cowboy Dance Hall regulars as the one who introduced the ‘bottom roll’ into boot-scootin.’ St. Peter, you’d better have your ‘Tony Llamas on and your jeans pressed tight’ tonight cause the Holy City is going to be busty.”

“Busty?” I said.

“Let me see that,” he said, grabbing the sheet and examining it. “That should read ‘busy.’ I’m still editing some of these.” He scribbled a note.


Big Dope didn’t even want me

to include a photo of Margauritte’s

favorite outfit. - C.W.

“Do you really think the paper will print this stuff?”

“Sure,” he said. “Look at this one.”

I moved it into the light.

“Seventy-two alter boys, all shiny in their starched white robes, were lined up at the Pearly Gates as Fa…” I stopped.

“C.W.,” I yelled.

“What?” he said.

“Out!”

94. Traditions

C.W. followed us on a vacation to Cincinnati and almost caused a riot. I was furious. First, he promised not to come but came anyway. Second, he showed at the most inopportune time. Third, he went out of his way to bust my … well, let’s just say, to irritate me.

It was Derby Day in central Kentucky and while everyone was occupied, we chose to make the Kentucky Bourbon Trail with our friends, Rose and Wayne Pfirrman. Wayne and I served in the Vietnam "conflict" together and the two families swap visits each year.

It was our time and we had just finished a tour of the Woodford Reserve distillery. All was going well.

We slipped into the beautiful community of Versailles for lunch. All was still going well. We stopped at a restaurant called “The Grey Goose” and were enjoying Mint Juleps and the fellowship, not bothering a soul. Although the other patrons weren’t attending the big race, the ladies there donned the fancy hats that are traditional on Derby Day.

Then I heard a commotion, loud voices and swearing from the outdoor patio. My blood turned the temperature of a glacier.

In walked a classic redneck with an Arkansas Razorback Hog Hat perched on his head. I looked the other way but when he yelled “Hey Big Dope” across the room, I knew things were going to hell.

“Big, Dope,” he yelled again. “Have you seen all these weird hats women are wearing?”

Every head in the room snapped around. I bowed mine.

He walked over and when I looked up, I saw it was worse. In addition to the hog hat, he wore a sweater with the words “Free Bobby Petrino” emblazoned on the front.

My friend Wayne was enthralled. “Hey Rose,” he said. “Lookit. Here’s a real hog hat.”

She stabbed a morsel of food, stared hard into her plate, and didn’t say a word. My wife left for the Ladies Room.

“Ain’t it something?” C.W. said. “I figured if everyone else was going to wear a hat, I would too.”

When he pivoted to show it off, it got still worse. On the back of the sweater were the words, “KU sucks.”

“May I join you?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Sure,” Wayne said. “Where can I get me one of those hats?”

Before he could sit, though, a crowd began to gather around us. Fortunately, the manager intervened and told C.W. he had to leave.

“Why?”

“We have traditions here,” the man said. “We take them seriously and don’t appreciate it when people mock them.”

“Well, if that don’t take the crust off the okry,” C.W. said. “You let traditions spoil a feller’s fun?”

“Leave sir,” the manager said.

“Wanna buy this hat?” C.W. said, looking at Wayne.

“No he doesn’t,” I said. “I will see you back in Arkansas.”

He appeared genuinely hurt at this point. He turned and stared down the crowd. Then he headed for the door. 

My pals and I just wanted to watch the
Kentucky Derby. What's the big fuss about? - C.W.


Rose looked up. “What was his problem?” she asked.

Before I could answer, C.W. turned.

“Funny,” he said. “They didn’t like my outfit at Churchill Downs either.”

75. Role Models

“We ain’t sorry. We’s hippies,” she said.

Oh my goodness. C.W. had only appeared as two people twice before, and those involved the conjoined twins Lucky and Lefty, one of his favorite shape-shifts. This time he appeared as two separate individuals, a couple who looked as if they had just been evicted from a “meth-house” in Alabama.

“Have you met my wife, Dolly Winona?” the male figure asked.

“What’s up, C.W.?” I said.

“I have an idea,” he said.

“And that is?”

“We want us our own television show,” Dolly Winona said.

“Television show?”

“Yes,” said C.W. “I think it would look good on my final report to the Falloonian Elders if I had a television show for awhile.”

“And?”

“Well they don’t exactly feature the best and the brightest on shows these days, do they?”

“No, you got to be crazy, worthless, or just a plain misfit to make it,” Dolly Winona said.

I must have looked confused.

“So we are hippies,” said C.W.

“Don’t you know hippies went out after the 1960s?”

It was his turn to look confused.

“So how about the 1970s?”

“Not much but disco.”

“Ain’t nobody would be hard up enough to make a movie about disco dancers, would they?” Dolly Winona said.

“We’ll talk about that another day,” I said.

“So what’s worse than disco?” C.W. said.

“In modern times?”

“Yes, we need a theme featuring what your gospel writer Matthew called, ‘the least of these.’”

“Outlaw truck drivers?”

“Taken,” he said.

“Intermediate hominoid species who live in swamps in Louisiana and, say, hunt alligators for their livelihood?”

“Taken.”

“Gun enthusiasts with diminished mental capacity?”

“Bless his heart,” Dolly Winona said. “Don’t he know the State of Texas ain’t never gonna run out of them shows?”

“Slutty women with no talent, no abilities, and no redeeming qualities?”

“Taken, taken, taken, and taken.”

“Whur’d we ever find a slutty woman, anyway?” Dolly Winona interrupted with some indignation in her voice. And besides, we’s figurin’ on bein’ a couple on the show.”

“A couple?”

“Yeah, You know how family oriented TV is these days.” She reached into her bag and retrieved two cans of Mountain Dew.

“You ‘ont one?”

“No thanks,” I said.

She handed the other a can and both popped the tops. Spray settled on floor and couch, but I ignored it.

“We got to think of somebody sorry,” Dolly Winona said. “Just plain sorry. We’s aimin’ for a big hit.”

Inspiration struck me. “How about ….”

They both leaned forward.

“How about …”

“Come on, spit it out, Hon,” said Dolly Winona.

“How about … Trailer Trash Ministries?”

“Say what?”

“You could be television evangelists specializing in ministering to a different trailer park each week.”

Ya'll come see us at our new
International Headquarters. - C.W. and Dolly Winona

They were speechless for several seconds. Then Dolly Winona broke into a big smile. “At tar’s got promise,” she said. “At’s got sorry stacked on top of sorry.”

“Where can we get us a Bible?” C.W. said, rising to leave.