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Without warning she flung back the bed
cover and buried me completely, which caused an equal and opposing
reaction (something to do with physics I think). I flailed wildly
until the Serta label was all that remained on the bed. Somehow
the down comforter had been genetically modified and radioactively
charged and she had purposely scalded me. "That's not a bad idea, and believe me I've considered it, but you're a little too lanky to stuff into a fifty gallon hefty bag? Such a response told me two things. She had not only called my bluff and raised me, but the only thing keeping her from offing me was the lack of a detailed disposal plan. "You'd like that wouldn't you-if I was out of the way. You'd be free to take up with that buff twenty-something neighbor boy. Don't think I don't know-every middle-aged woman in town takes a detour past his house during mowing season. Slow-rolling by with wagging tongues pasted to the glass…looks like some damn pervert parade. Who ever heard of mowing in a tangerine colored Speedo! You poor women are so naïve-ten to one that's a big ole gym sock stuffed in there." She pretended to know nothing, a first line of defense for the guilty. Thousands of prisons across this country full to capacity and not one of 'em done it…all framed and victims of circumstance. "You're freakin' certifiable. Where do you come up with these wild tales? For the record, I don't have a clue what you're talking about." Only cat-like reflexes saved my melon from a collision with a rocket-propelled pillow. I greeted this act of aggression with what I deemed an appropriate request. "Have you seen my brown socks?" "I suppose you've already checked the middle of the living room floor, or has side-stepping them for them the last week en-route from the fridge to the easy chair eluded you?" Perusing my shallow memory pool I remembered nothing of socks, although sometimes I'm a victim of tunnel-vision when in search of food. Nonetheless her ploy was veil thin. "Nice try at changing the subject, but enough about the socks. Let's hear more about this stud-muffin in exotic swimwear. A wonder-boy who's shredded abs turn the Canasta team's legs into jelly. No detail too small-I want to hear it all!" My demand for particulars was accompanied by a marked change; her angry eyes became deep pools of pity. A sober reckoning I had not seen in her since the day the vet put down our Golden Retriever, Barney. She asked me to sit on the bed with her and spoke in an unusually quiet voice. "We probably should have had this conversation some time ago. It is true-what you said about the parade of cars lining up to watch Raphael mow his lawn." Even I knew nothing good could come of my wife knowing his first name. "You only see the chiseled outline of an Adonis, but he is so much more-a true Renaissance man really. He repairs his own car and it even runs when he's finished. He's a whiz in the kitchen; his lamb chops are to die for and after a couple of glasses of Corbières, he's originally from France you know, his charm is practically irresistible." I slipped into a semi-comatose state. Her lips continued to flutter, but the words no longer reached my ears. My wife of twenty years was setting the table for an unbelievable tale of seduction. A Renaissance man, indeed, how exactly did she define such? Yours truly could belch the Spanish number system from 1-10 completely sober, whereas most of my buddies barely made Ochoa with a six-pack behind them. She flippantly dismissed the flatulence-serenade that I lovingly delivered with only an assist from a second helping of baked beans. How could a woman choose a man with such highly developed sphincter-control for a couple of lamb chops? Admittedly I was not perfect, but never imagined she was searching for more. At that awful moment of realization I must have looked like a raccoon creeping across the interstate in the dead of night, caught at the center-line as an eighteen-wheeler bears down upon him. Surveying either side of the road I determined safety was out of reach; the truck too fast, and I too slow. There were two choices, curl up and wait for an ugly impact, or turn and stare directly into the headlights. Cowardly I chose middle ground. "Stop! No more details. Let's just cut to the chase. Did you and that loser do the nasty?" I barely felt the knife pierce my back, but was innately aware of each serrated edge as she twisted the handle. "Let's just say Raphael doesn't own any gym socks and in subtle ways he reminds me of Teddy Roosevelt." Before I could separate the thoughts swirling in my head she rose and walked to the dresser with pillow in hand. Perhaps she intended to muffle the blast from my forty-five as she disposed of the nuisance I had become. She wheeled quickly and floored me one swing of a pillow. Lying beside the bed I drew my chin close to examine my torso for a gaping hole. As I searched my gut for an entrance wound a blurry object entered my field of vision and bounced harmlessly off my chest. "Here's your brown socks fresh from the laundry. You have to admit I had you going for a minute." She reached down and patted my receding hairline and delivered one final comment. "Why would I drive a Corvette when I own a comfortable mini-van with slightly balding tires?" Long after she left the bedroom and before
my head had cleared several thoughts came to me. A goose-egg
forming on the back of my head could attest to poor choice when
selecting the cheap carpet pad, but more notable there were two
very important morals to this story. First, I had been played
far too easily. The combination of a poker-face and superior
intellect had been my undoing and for that I was duly ashamed.
Secondly, as a bit of advice to fellow men out there, never ever
trust a man name Raphael in a tangerine Speedo. Dan Beams is a 40-year-old self-described simple man. He lives in a small town in central Illinois, with his wife, Beth, and two children, Allie 15, and Jacob 12. By a strange twist of fate, the loss of his job last year, led to his love of writing. Although this new passion is less than a year old Dan has established a great connection to the intrinsic power of the written word. Writing has again impressed upon him the fact that the key to a successful life is to possess, in great abundance, those things not easily measured. You can read more of Dan's poetry at http://poeticjustice-dan.blogspot.com/ Send Dan a message either directly or using
the Word Catalyst feedback form. For more from Dan visit the
Word Catalyst archives or his online
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Leftovers
Sometime during the night I woke with my sheets
in a knot. After a lengthy battle I managed to wrestle a hand-towel
sized portion of the comforter from my wife. From a painful fetal
position I slipped back into a fitful state of rest. I remained
there in a world of purgatory until Mitsy, my over-nourished
and under-exercised cat, mistook my snoring for an invitation
to pounce. Her timing was impeccable, right on top of my head
ten minutes prior to the alarm going off. My 'pissed-meter' was
pegged even before my feet touched the floor. Someone or something
must bear the brunt of this awful mood and who better than the
cover stealer lying next to me? When two randomly irritated individuals
meet-sparks fly and on rare occasions startling things come to
light.
Cheshire Cat
Truly Calhoun
Songs of