376. Rules

  “Come on in. I want to show you something.”

“What the … ?” If I hadn’t known it was C.W. I would have sworn John Lennon was sitting on my couch. He brushed his hair back over his shoulder and pushed his tiny glasses higher on his nose.

“I’m in the groove now, man.”

“You’re what?”

“In the groove, dude. I got it all happening.”

“You what?”

“Oh,” he said, “I forgot to tell you. The communications tech on Falloonia sent me an updated slang module for my Galactic Universal Translator. My GUT has never worked better.” He stopped. His face brightened. He grabbed a pen and pad from the coffee table and wrote. When he finished, he read to me, “If you find you have to fart in public, go and stand beside the fattest woman you can find.” He smiled approvingly. “Oh man, that’s knocked out. Strictly copasetic.”

It took a moment for me to find my voice, as you might imagine. “May I ask what you are doing?”

“Getting’ it together man. I’m going to be loaded.”

“Exactly how are you going to be, uh, loaded?”

“From my book,”

“What book?”

“The Big Dope Book of Rules.”

I sat down. “The what?”

“Book of Rules. Now don’t go ape on me, man.” I just used your name because it sounds real gone, you know. Oh wait.” He wrote, speaking as he did so. “Never buy a used car from a man wearing a Hawaiian shirt or carrying a mini-Bible in his pocket.” He stared at the paper. “Man,” he said, “it’s really happening now.”

If I remember correctly, I simply stared at him at this point.

“Can’t you dig it?” he asked. “People are carrying around a lot of hang-ups now. They need all the advice they can get.” He nodded in approval of his own point. “Oh,” he said, beginning to write again. “Never take romantic advice from a man over 50 or a woman under 30.” He smiled. “Far out, man.”

“May I ask a question?”

“Shoot,” he said.

“Have you gone bat-crap crazy?”

He ignored me and started writing and speaking. “Be kind to your neighbors. Remember the ‘courtesy-flush.’ They'll thank you for it.” Only then did he look at me. “You hacked off about something?”

“Astounded,” I said, “would be a better word.

“Shoot me the straight-skinny, man.”

“First, you need to talk to your technician back on Falloonia.”

“Sock it to me.”

“You might tell him to move the dial forward 50 years.”

“Say what?”

Happy 50th Sgt. Pepper. - C.W.

“Then, you might reconsider this whole endeavor.”

He signaled for me to wait. “Before you spread, make him cover the head.” He chuckled and looked back at me. “Now what?”

“You can’t be serious about all this.”

He wrote again. “If he’s not kind and tender, then threaten his member.” He looked at me as if he saw me for the first time. “Yes?”

“Nothing,”

“Good. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve some work to do.” He glanced at his pad, I.Q, …, I.Q, … let’s see. Oh. A man’s I.Q. can be estimated by dividing his age by the number of tattoos he has.

I began to ease away. As I exited the room, he yelled toward me. “Been a blast rapping with you.”

 See also:

Delta Dreaming
All Hat No Cattle
Order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers.

105. Matches

“Intergalactic travel. Should I put that under ‘hobbies’ or ‘job description’ I wonder?”

I considered it. “It might sound less intimidating as a hobby.”

“No, wait, I already listed ‘making crop circles’ as a preferred passing of durations.”

While he pondered the most appropriate pastime, I fixed us a couple of Mexican Martinis. I love the way they affect him and he tends to forget until it is too late.

C.W. was spending Saturday evening filling out a questionnaire for an on-line dating service. It’s one of his favorite, well … ‘pass durations’ if you will. So far, his respondents were all English Majors except for the owner of a Christian bookstore in Seattle who was passing himself off as the widow of a Nobel Prize – winning physicist. (Readers will have to wait until the statute of limitations has run out on that one.}

Anyway, he was trying to broaden his constituency, so to speak. You should have seen him. He resembled a model in a men’s magazine, without that constipated look they tend to assume.

I handed him his drink and he sipped. “Marvelous,” he said.

“Just wait,” I thought. “Enjoy it,” I said.

“Cute puppies, Céline Dion music, and long walks in the spring rain,” he said as he wrote.

“That is so awful.”

“What?”

“Why don’t you put the truth down?” I said.

“Such as?”

“Analyzing String Theory literature, making homemade pasta, and buzzing around town on your Vespa.”

“I did that once.”

“And?”

“Don’t you remember driving her back to the bus terminal?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, shuddering. “But seriously, how can you expect a meaningful relationship to develop from such an orchestrated scenario?”

“As opposed to what?” he said.

“Chance encounters,” I said. “So spontaneous and romantic. Don’t you pay attention to any of the movies we watch? Consider the happy little accidents of life.”

He thought for a moment. “Such as yours?”

It was my turn to think. “Exactly,” I said.

“So you happened to meet your wife on the parking lot of your apartment complex.”

“That’s correct,” I said.

“Nearly 40 years ago?”

“Seems like the blink of an eye,” I said.

“Purely by accident?” he said.

“Purely.” I saw him cock an eye. “What are you getting at?” I said.

“She just happened to walk by?” he said.

“Just happened to,” I said. “I was working on my car.”

“And it was parked by the door of her apartment?”

I thought back. “No, I had parked it in a far corner, out of the way.”

“And she just walked by dressed in jeans and a sweater.”

“No, she was dressed for a date,” I said. “Really dolled up.”

“And just happened to walk by.”

“Just happened to,” I said, with less confidence.

I can't understand why I don't get
better matches on E-Harmony with this great photo - C.W.

“Did she stroll by, or did she do that ‘Lauren Bacall’ thing.”

Realization struck me like summer lightening, and my mouth dropped. “Why that little …”

“Hold on, pal,” he said, finishing his drink. “That’s your life-partner you’re talking about and she’s in the next room.” Then he banged his glass on the table.

“Put some music on, Big Dope. I’m ready to do the Merengue.”