Drying and Dying ...a Monologue
Drying and dying
By
Ingrid Showalter Swift
It’s been a while, I know. I just been doing the same week in and week out. Ya didn’t miss much except we did have ourselves a banger of storm a while back.
Ya know I been hearing so much about drought recently I’m pretty much feeling like a dried fruit just thinking about all those thirsty folk. It parches me something awful. Lord be blessed, I am tell’n ya, I feel like I am being a swine chugging water down like I do after a hot day’s work or complaining about a storm. All the while those people out West there are looking at dust bowls instead of waves of green grains. Yeh, I guess it is usually creamy golden whitish by most accounts but you know what I mean.
When it comes to a drink I always did love the sound of ice in a glass at the end of a good long swig, which is pretty funny cause that makes me think of hard liquor drinks, which ya know I never drink…. in a glass. ( chuckles all proud of ...being like the guy on TV)
It is all just as plain as a Fraulien dressed for church after a bleach bath stole her flower prints and with it.... her yodel for good measure.
I am… I guess… truth be told… just kinda missing a bit of my skip just now.
You see Old Harold Marcusbee Parker died. I guess that is news, but people have a way of doing that once they reach 87. It is not like I was stunned or shocked but well… what did... I admit... take a breath or two from me was the swiftness on which the dark rider came for him.
You know it was like BANG!
Bang went my screen door, in walks Bradley Gray and says the old guy is dust and not by a heart attack, a stroke or a serial murderer.
The dumb old Geezer fell off his own damn roof. Now for all that is holy and makes good solid sense, why!?
I am not gonna be wanting to be climbing up and all over my roof at 87. So what in the name of good n salty was he ever doing on the roof in the first place?! Not like he doesn’t have 14 children and at least half of them boys and the other half tougher who coulda been up there helping if not doing it for him.
They say his wife was standing at the sink looking out the window at her flower garden and swoosh curb-bangers n mash here he comes fly’n down right before her eyes. There was, no doubt, all kinds of screaming and goings on...hands in the air weaping and lament'n. I for one am sound sensitive so I shy away from too much going on whenever I can, but can you imagine it? I hear she went flying all over the neighborhood screaming for help and drawing out every youngster from here to Melbborne.
Well, you guessed it, didn’t every one of those kids use those fancy phones to text every other kid and pretty soon the sad scene is a three ring circus. They had to quick cover him up and scram them whole lot off. I know it sounds kinda fast to just cover him but of course one of the neighbors rang the Doc up and he was pronounced ...before they did it.
Still, chills me a bit. I doubt the dust from the rider’s wheels had even settled down in the clouds yet.
What a thing… what a thing! What a “dumb old stubborn cootheaded good for nothing ladder climbing” thing.
I will miss him the old kind to a fault hammer hitter.
There will be no more free beers down at Jack’s for me, thank you very much. Gonna have to man up to do my own buy’ns now.
They are say’n his wife Freada is pretty ripped up and she is being hard on her daughter Megan. Can’t say I don’t understand but Freada won’t let Megan leave her alone for even a moment. I don’t guess I blame her. She must be half scared of ghosts, feel like the sky is falling and half scared of the rider himself coming in after her next.
Goes to show in a blink and a drink your back to dust and rust.
It‘s strange brew drying and dying. It’s just a strange brew. I keep thinking of things to say to Old Parker. You would think he and I chattered it up like kitchen hens at Jacks the way I keep thinking of him. In truth we probably said 50 words over 50 years racking up n down. We were just good stewards and of course he was a fine benefactor. He kept me wet as a whistle and smooth as a sheet for all those years. Always said “You’ll get it next time” but you know the kind, next time never came and eventually we got used to the same. I’d say “let me get it” and he’d say “You’ll get em next time…you got it next time” We musta said that 50 times 7 times. Hard to calculate now, for me. I just won’t do it but if you like mathin it up by all means mail me the answer. My address? Naw, I don’t like a racket and visitors definitely make a racket.
What kind of racket you ask?
Well, their breathing in and out in my space is noise enough. Nope you just keep that answer to yourself. You don’t need to be find’n out about my address more than I already told ya before. You were the one who cared for the math numbers anyway.
I am done talk’n. Gotta go.
Maybe I grab my beer from the Tastymart tonight, drive down to the sea and keep the crusty shore company. Not like I am gonna go sit n get all mourn-y over Parker at Jacks. Just not much in it for me tonight.
I am feel’n mighty parched inside n out. Dry as a whistler gets after trying too hard and too long to get the notes in that good old tune ..just right. Dry, so damn dry I feel a bit like death myself tonight. Best I get near the sea. All that water…so much water and ner a sip in sight.
Damn Parker, you stupid old Carriage wheel, kept trying to race with the Gods no matter your age. Guess ya caught the dust of them at long last. Give my best to Zeus and all the prettiest angels!
Damn - ya dumb goat!
I surmise I will think of you from time to time till we meet n greet under the fine shine of those pearly gates ...but mostly when drinking beer.
You were a fine sort just to sit near. truth in that
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