Friday, August 4, 2017

Master of the Segue

Lady marches up to me at my library post, and in a loud, clear voice asks if we have eyes.


I look into hers. She's the whimsical Columbian I've dealt with many a time--she of the creative lipstick application and the random requests to stay at staff members' houses for the night. She speaks with an accent so I thought maybe I misheard her and by "eyes" she meant "eyes." Perhaps she meant a new technological innovation, a new Apple product called an iEye? The iEye--when you need to see double. But, no. She wasn't asking for eyes.

"Oh, ice?"

"Yes! Do you have any eyes cubes here?"

"Sure. Let me run to our staff room refrigerator and gather up a handful of cubes for you. How melty do you want them? And that'll be ten cent a cube."


Jonah was nearby. He didn't want to be in the blog yet again, but I enjoy inflicting pain (hence this blog).

"I'm developing a theory about how to determine who is crazy," I said, smirking. "Whenever I see an outgoing patron-customer use the handicap button, that's a sure sign. Don't want to touch our door handle teeming with germs and Freemasonry? Then you must be a redneck. And a loony. It's a surefire insanity test."

"Mm," said Jonah.

"Thanks for being on today!"

"Speaking of insanity..."

In comes the next kookaburra. A feller in his late seventies, gray bushy hair poking out of his seed cap, and a circus holocaust of dental failure. Every week he brings me a stack of the Weekly Shit Job Newspaper (which I promptly throw in the recycling can) and then he leans on my desk to tell me about the time he flew a Soviet plane and crashed it in a ditch, breaking every bone in his chest.

"You can barely get around this town no more. Building us up like New York!" He opened a smile of mastodontic horror. One tooth there. Two teeth there.

I looked away. "Yeah."

"But it won't be long before Trump stops giving money to this town. Then you better watch out!"



"Well, see you in the funny papers!" (Snuffy Smith, I'm assuming he means.)

"Speaking of funny papers..."

Mom shakes her head over her menu just like Beetle Bailey as she talks about Bingo Bailey. It looks like they were going to have to up the dosage on Bingo's Prozac.

"That poor, poor dog. He's such a sweet, nice dog. He really is. And when he bites you he means it in a sweet way."

"He gives you the nice rabies."

"I just feel so bad for Bingo. Poor, poor Bingo. He's so frightened. But he's so loving and warm and good with me. Sometimes he just gets between my legs and--"

"I'mma stop you there, Mom. So are you saying we're not going to London because of Bingo?"

"No, we'll go. I just have to make sure that Bingo is psychologically well-adjusted. And that his chakras are aligned properly."

"Speaking of chakras... I went on a date last week. And, funny thing, she turns out to be a teacher at South. I'm hoping maybe she can give me a test this weekend, if you catch my meaning."

Mom stared at me, aghast. "A teacher at South?! Do you mean to say you're dating someone who could be Toot's new teacher this year??"

I stared.

"Dear God. I hadn't even thought of that."

I raised my Perkin's OJ. "Here's to skinning my knees!"


"Nothing, Mom. Nothing."

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