Posts Tagged it’s fiction

What I Meant to Say Was…

This is part two–a sequel of sorts–to my post, Come Hell Or High Water. If you didn’t read part one, what follows won’t make much sense, so you might want to click on the link and read Come Hell or High Water before you read this. In any case, Happy New Year!

That sound you hear is me chuckling as I walk down the well-lit street to my house. Yes, I had a couple beers at the local tavern—which I haven’t been to in so long, I think I still had hair last time I was there. 

grin-big-earsWhat Peg—the beer tender—actually said was, “I thought you quit drinking.” To which I replied, “I did. I think I’ll go home now.”

The stuff about the weather is about the only thing I said that had much truth to it. Although, I might add, it’s a beautiful Arizona night in early June. About 80 degrees, with a few wispy clouds drifting in front of a billion or so stars and a lazy crescent moon. Doesn’t sound quite so sinister that way, does it?

And yes, I’m a bit of a rebel, but not so much as I was when I was a teenager. Sure, if you tell me not to do something these days, I might raise an eyebrow and tell you (not out loud) where you can put it, but that’s about it. The eyebrow thing isn’t too intimidating, and truth be known the last person I scared was me, a few minutes ago, when I thought I saw my shadow move when I was standing still.

And that thing I said about something happening this morning. Well, the coffee pot quit working and the kitchen sink got plugged up. I always heard bad stuff comes in threes, so I got out of there before number three could happen. The only high water around here might be in my kitchen when I get back to the house, and the any hell this town has to worry about sure isn’t me. Which, by the way, speaking of this town, I like it here. It’s where all my friends are, and I have a lot of friends. I’m as likeable as the next guy, and when somebody needs a helping hand, they know who to call.

It was true about the guns. Not that I need any right now. I don’t own any, but know how to use them, and if the proverbial defecation were to suddenly contact the rotary oscillator, I’d be right there beside my buddies and they wouldn’t hesitate to loan me a rifle or a gun. We used to talk some about that a few years back, but the excitement seems to have died down since the last election.

As for being the strong silent type, I guess I might be a little of both those things. I’m in decent shape for a seventy-year-old fella, and I keep my opinions to myself most of the time. Back when all the excitement about guns and stuff hitting the fan was going on, I got a little rowdy on Facebook, but it didn’t take me long to figure out I wasn’t going to change anybody’s mind and they weren’t going to change mine. After a few years of being mad, I decided nothing was really changing at all—life was still pretty much like it had always been—so I quit saying mean things to people I didn’t hardly know, and went back to doing and saying things that didn’t make me or them angry.

And that brings me to the last part of my previous diatribe. Yessir, there’s no doubt I’m going to die someday, and Probably won’t nobody reading this have anything to do with it. None of us know when our time will be up, and all I’m trying to do these days is see to it I don’t hurt people. In fact, I try to encourage folks to get along and just be happy.

If you’re interested, I can always use another friend.

Copyright © C Mashburn 2017

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