It's all in the eyes; if they are looking in your cute little peepers, you win!
Frank used to tell a lovely story:
An old man, alone and lonely, would go to the park at the end of his street each day to watch the world go by. Some days he felt at peace, thinking that he was part of this world of people picnicking and children playing. Other days he was restless—wondering if he fit in, if he was still included in anyone's life or if he was just an old man sitting on a bench; a fixture.
But the best days came when he saw a little girl of eight or nine come into the park with her little white dog. The child would play with the pet with such abandon, shrieking with laughter, or the child would simply sit under a tree, holding the little animal lovingly and whispering into its ear. When the little girl and her dog were there, the old man felt that he was part of the world—imagined, even, that he was part of the little girl's family.
One day, the little girl was playing fairly near the bench where the old man always sat and he summoned the courage to call out to her. The little girl looked up from her play with the dog and smiled a radiant smile at the old man and came over to him, without even a whisper of suspicion or doubt. The old man's heart was warmed.
"Hello, sir," the little girl said with all the politeness some parent or teacher had drilled into her.
"Hello, little girl," the old man said. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Why certainly!" she said, with a hint of a lisp and the old man smiled broadly, remembering a child from his own past who had such a lisp...a good memory.
"What's your name, little girl?" he asked.
"My name is Petal."
"My, my—such a beautiful name. How did you get some a pretty name?" he asked.
"Well," she began, about to tell a story often-heard and beloved, "when I was born, and my mother was in the hospital, my father came to visit her with a huge bouquet of pink roses. As he put the vase of roses on her bed-side table, one single petal fluttered in the wind and floated onto her bed, falling onto the white sheets. My mother took this as a sign and said to my father, 'We shall call our little girl Petal' and my daddy smiled and knew that it was the perfect name."
The old man's heart was near bursting with emotion and he thought he might shed a tear at hearing such a fine story. He brushed his eyes surreptitiously so as not to worry the little child. At this, the little dog let out the smallest and sweetest bark, vying for attention. The old man smiled and said, "And, dear Petal, what is your little friend's name?"
"Porky," said the child.
"Porky! What an odd name!" said the old man. "And why does the charming little being have such a name?"
"Because he fucks pigs."
WAKE UP PEOPLE! FRANK WAS INCAPABLE OF TELLING A "LOVELY" FUCKING STORY!
Yes, yes, yes he had moments where he was a little softer than usual—exactly like the moment I had with his ghost the other night—but mostly he was a funny, foul-mouthed old coot. So, no, I am not going to turn into the Saint Léo just because Frank asked me to cut the Mooks some slack. I will, however, do as he says: hold off for a while and see how things turn out.
To that end, I have not yet killed Mook A though we have been alone for ten days (since Mook B went off on vacation) and I am, in the parlance of humans, behaving. No shitting on the floor, beds, or carpets. No peeing. No barfing. Just to add a little variety and to remind A that I am in the house with him (and to tear him away from the fucking TV and/or computer) I skipped a couple of meals. He became adequately concerned and things got back to normal (ie: I ate and became the boss again).
It's not like the whole time has been without incident. I was nearly killed during yesterday morning's walk because this idiot cunt backed out of her driveway without so much as a glance back and I was right there. That extensible leash sure came in handy with A yanking me hard enough to go flying into his arms. The lady nodded sorry and A nodded back. What he should have done is break her fucking windshield, stupid twat.
Also, there is a stray cat that has decided to cozy up to A. I made the mistake of being nice to the fucker and the fucker was nice to me and A turned all gooey and it was all sweetness and light. Then A said something to the cat that curled my hair: "If I could, I'd take you in, poor thing, but I don't think this one would have it." "This one" was, of course, me and there is no way I would have it. If he gives that meowing piece of shit so much as a bowl of milk, I'll spray the walls with urine and shit.
A cat....do you fucking believe it? A fucking cat...in my fucking house.
This is another sign of Mook A quietly going nuts from boredom and lonliness. As you know Mook B and Cate are off who-knows-where having the time of their lives while the two of us rot in this crumby apartment. Also, this weekend, The Straight Guy is out of town and he was supposed to come here to watch movies (and hopefully break up the monotony). A's other confidante, some chick he talks to long-distance a lot, is also out of town for the weekend. So the next 48 hours should be the real test.
At least there are the nurses and, luckily, my beloved is on weekend shift so I won't have to deal with strangers (who don't get me like she does). Problem is, with nurses each day nothing medical gets ignored. A got this itty-bitty cut on his hand and the damn thing got so infected that he was having trouble moving his entire right wrist and lower arm. The nurse didn't like it. So, off he goes, tomorrow morning (the nurse is coming by at 8:30 especial), to a clinic. It will be the longest time we are parted since B left. Part of me is relieved to have some alone-time, but if he's gone too long...well....shit happens.
No comments:
Post a Comment