There is money in this idea Ninny, but you’ve got to listen to my words, before it goes wrong. Way wrong. It seems as if, just one word makes you crazy with your thoughts, which in turn make me crazy, making me want to flatten you one! Now, let’s try again.
That’s exactly what I told myself when the motor died, just before the boat went over the waterfall. Just one word between me and sudden death. That one decisive word, which could have brought her back to my way of thinking. The one that might have stopped that bar fight, permanently disfiguring the Good Samaritan, who tried to stop the two combatants from going too far. The one word that he would tell her of his true feelings. Sink or swim. Now or never. It might be the last ingredient in the cake, destined to win him the contest deciding his future whether he would be attending the world-famous pastry school located in Alaska of all places, winning the girl from the back country, making his fortune certain by betting on the winning horse, choosing the wealthy socialite whose father was taking his last breaths in the deeply dark and depressing hospital on the edge of town, where his family was still discussing the location of his last will and testament. Who was going to inherit those millions? Was it worth killing my cousin Biff to garner his share over to me?, or was the voluptuous babe sitting across from me really a blood-relation after all?
“Money Poindexter. We are going to make a lot of it. Much more than that small car-washing business that you drove into the ground due to your bad debts, and extravagant spending habits. This time, I’ll be pulling the strings, not just being your silent-partner, but a full-fledged member of our business duo. Got it?”
I’ve never considered her a silent-partner. With that being the opposite, being most true. The way the veins bulged out on her face when she talked about me, her and money in the same sentence scared me a lot, but I didn’t dare tell her that. There is a right time to talk to women and a wrong time. Sometimes it seemed that there were more wrong times, and almost none if any right times, but I was still young in the “understanding women department”, which still gave me hope that I would be able to do that someday? My father was no help at all in that department. I’d a thought that with his many years of experience in being married, he’d be able to give me some sure-fire tips, guaranteed to win the girl, while convincing her father, The King, that I was worthy to inherit one-half of the kingdom! It just didn’t seem to be so, with my father just nodding along when my mother spoke, then excusing himself to the sanctity of his own kingdom, the garage, where I imagine there was some sort of wormhole, or magic telephone booth transporting him to anywhere else than where the rest of us called home. – take me with you Dad, please….
“This money”, she went on, “these few bills of currency, these sawbucks that you were about to foolishly give to some complete stranger, putting your life in his hands, which might as well have slipped while cutting your hair, with no hope, whatsoever about calling the ambulance people to save your skinny life, before your life ebbed out onto the barber shop floor. There you were, lying among the finer hairs of this society, while the rest of the world wondered when it would be their turn to suffer such a fate. That is why I’ll be wielding the shears, creating a masterpiece in itself, showing the barbering community that even a girl can change the course of great rivers, solidifying her place in the history books.”
Her mouth did seem to be moving, but I was still wondering why my father wouldn’t take me along on his latest time travel, as well as why I couldn’t read lips? The latter of the two would come in handy, especially after the bomb blast which had rendered me deaf during the latest mortar attack. The other dough-boys would be frantically trying to make me understand that our lives were in imminent danger, unless we high-tailed it out of there. They half-pushed, half-dragged me up to the surface, where the ambulance was waiting to take me to the deeply dark and depressing field hospital located on the edge of the battlefield, where my hearing and my manhood might just be able to recover in the caring hands of some angel of healing. Her name was Lola, and she did wonders with her hands. The others in the tent marveled at her skills, and couldn’t wait for her to attend to their needs, no matter what time of day, or night, helping them into another state of healing.
“Just make yourself comfy, while I adjust the chair to the proper height” is what I heard, as my hearing again returned to normal. “Just a fine adjustment here, or another brick in the wall then Voila! Now we’re cooking Poindexter.”
My “chair” consisted of two flat boards, situated atop some bricks, which were tossed into a corner of her backyard. I’d never really been there before, so I kept my mind occupied by taking a gander when she was occupied with other things. There were pieces of metal sticking up at odd angles, as well as a pile of lumber harboring no doubt her personal and private collection of Black Widow Spiders.
“Their poison” she said while tightening the ropes about me and the chair, “is rather slow-working at first, but suddenly..” .with that statement, she threw her head back while letting out a wicked laugh, making my situation all the more deadly now knowing that her insanity was not of the curable kind. If her and Lola hadn’t had it out while mud wrestling, they might have buried the hatchet and become fast friends. Lola and her many charms might have been able to bring her back from the darker side of her mind, making this side of the world safer once again. The mayor’s key to the city, the love a fine man, and the respect of her peers would be just some of her rewards, but enough of that as I still feared for my life, hanging by a single thread of the spider’s web, just inches away from where I lived, where I called home.
“My father used to tell about how he got his hair cut” her voice cutting like knives through the cords that bound me, allowing me to escape from her heinous lair, giving me a chance to live another day in the sunshine, another day of life. “His mother would just put a bowl on his head, and cut around and under it. Easy, huh? Maybe we should try that with you Poindexter, making you a sort of Guinea Pig while we consider embarking on the greatest adventure of our lives.”
She still was including me in the plural form, which was something that made me think about living another day.
“Living and loving” was what was tattooed on Lola’s lower back. Not what just anyone could see, but if you were in need, then there were exceptions to the rule.
Oh, how I loved her exceptions, the both of them…….