Ropes

I wanted someone like Lola to show me the ropes in life. Unfortunately knowing Lola like I do, I would be afraid that she might just tie me to some tree in the forest, and wait until the opossums ate out my innards!

“It must have been a slow and agonizing death, this poor sap suffered” said the one hunter to the other, shouldering his AK-47 driving all thoughts of eating squirrel for dinner out of his head. “Yes, but maybe some wild woman ravished herself on him, before leaving him alone to his fate?” said the other, causing both men to grab their flak-jackets, their automatic machine guns, and portable rocket-launchers with the thought that she still might be out there, somewhere?

I was not a gun-guy. I should have been growing up in the big city what with the liberalized weapon law, and my father’s penchant for threatening the neighbors whenever they moved their trash cans just a bit too far over the edge of the curb for his liking. “Honey” my mother would call out to him, warning of the Saturday afternoon SWAT-team heading our way in order to “put him back in his place” once and for all. I would be in the backyard, drinking Dr. Pepper and wondering when the summer vacation was going to start, when my father yelled about everyone going down to the fallout shelter, before those Commies, dressed as law & order policemen, hit the front door with the battering ram.

Lola tried to change me to her way of thinking. OK. She said slowly and deliberately, placing the rifle in my hand, and guiding my finger towards the trigger. I would have done anything to have her so close to me, anything. I tried to sneak a peek down her camouflage-colored afternoon wear, with its classic Mexican bandolier styling, and Bonnie & Clyde perfume, reminding me of the smell of burned gunpowder on the 4th of July.

Lola just looked over to me, while I was looking over to her, making me straighten up before she applied the classic “Gun butt move” which would most likely knock out a few of my teeth in the process. “Now take a deep breath and pull” her voice was not unlike the sounds of thousands of Caribou thundering down the mountainside, in the late summers of the Alaskan wilderness. We had a well-worn shanty, which was airy in the summers and finger-snapping cold in the winters. She’d just stoke up the old wood stove while I pulled out the story we’d been reading to each other about life in the Danish Alps.

I pulled, but my finger failed to operate, causing Lola to wrest the gun from my hands and throw it on the ground. “Well, I never” she yelled, making me wonder why she put up with me and my useless, no-good ways anyway? I never would have ended up in Alaska, if my parents hadn’t been employed as migrant Tundra Apple pickers, but then not all “foreigners” were looked upon as wanted in the far Northwest! I met her the first time when the apple blossoms had almost stopped blooming, but there were still some to put in her hair, and what with the fragrant flowers and her hair with a touch of grey, I knew in my heart that I’d fallen head over heels for her!

As we lie on her Imitation Grizzly Bear rug and enjoyed a smoke of fine Cannabis from Southern Alaska, I espied a rifle hanging over her mantelpiece. Her eyes followed mine, and before I could say, Obama Mamma” she had brought it over to me, running her hands along the barrel as if it reminded her of some pleasant memory, something that changed her life forever. I was allowed to run my hands over it as well, and when they met, it was as if fireworks exploded in the skies! It was something that I won’t be forgetting so soon, let me tell you.

Lola just looked at the gun on the ground and walked over to pick it up. “I guess, not everyone needs to be happy for guns, but living out here in the sticks, it does come in handy from time to time. I then noticed empty places where there would otherwise have been the stuffed heads of her hunting trophies, but I didn’t want to dwell on that subject, any longer than necessary.

At the end of our lesson in dealing with guns, I left Lola, still fingering her gun barrel, as if she had other things on her agenda. I knew we’d run into each other again, hopefully when she wouldn’t be pointing her Willies 4 wheel drive jeep at me, along that stretch of road, where it wasn’t possible to escape without jumping to my certain death over the edge of the cliff.

Some things like that were just between me and Lola.

Just some special times we’d share with each other.

Lola. Oh, Lola…..

 

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