TheJacques
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- Oct 25, 2006
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MY WIFE'S LUNCH PAIL
Under a tree, in the middle of a desert, a lunch pail glinted in welcome.
“Hey man, hey,” the Drifter peered over the ebony branches. “Hey man, hey. Hey. You got something for me?”
I looked up from my meditative position with my wife’s lunch pail in my lap. The Drifter was more bothersome than the flies I had encountered all afternoon.
“Sure would like something, mister.” He winked with yellow. “I think you’ve got something for me, don’t you?”
Silently, I offered him the contents in my wife’s lunch pail. Holding out the bin like an opinionated tree branch, I looked away with silent disgust as the Drifter reached his gritted nails into my wife’s lunch pail.
“Well, look what I have here!” he guffawed and chuckled. “This is a meal.”
It was her underwear. Silky and white. See-through. Perfumed. A microscopic tag. It was her underwear.
“Go on,” I sighed. “Go now. Take it. It’s yours.”
The Drifter whistled with his tongue pressed through his gaps and looked at me skeptically.
“Pish! How do I not know these knickers could be time-bombed, ready to blow me asunder by the time I get home? If I ever get home. And what’s more, how do I not know you’re still in love with her? That could truncate my solitary appreciation for panties, it could.”
“Could it?” I returned with a killer's tone .
I looked up to him steadily, gazing through the fogged and mud-speckled lenses of my thirty-six-year-old eye-glasses. The flies burrowed in my brow.
The Drifter took a step backwards and wiped his nose warily. My wife’s underwear still hung like a smile of pearls looped betwixt his avaricious claw. He then gurgled out a hoarse-crackled titter, skipping in a trip and twirling in a solo dosey-do.
What sounded like a stampede and the noise a back-scratcher makes combined together was the Drifter's song:
“Hey man, hey, do you hear the brother rhyme?
Hey man, hey, can you tell me please the time?
Hey man, hey, can you spare me just a dime?
Hey man, hey, you forgot to add the lime!
I was a worker for the government
I shined the shoes of lords
But then one day they sacked me
Now I lie on wooden boards
I walk from sandy pueblo
To gusty towns of gold
I’ve spied American models
And ripped them from their mold
But never in my lifetime
Did I get a gift like this
O trick-or-treat, my lassy
Come, take me by the wrist
Hey man, hey, did you hear the mother plea?
Hey man, hey, did you tell the goats to flee?
Hey man, hey, did you spare me any brie?
Hey man, hey, you forgot to set me free!”
Now he was no more than a speck in the distant orange, and The Drifter's prize shimmered farewell to me.
I continued to grin as the heat boiled my sweltering mind and spread the flies like jam across my visage. I was a dessert in the desert, and my sweet sugar soul revenge was sweet.
That was the last time my wife ever put her underwear in her lunch pail.
Under a tree, in the middle of a desert, a lunch pail glinted in welcome.
“Hey man, hey,” the Drifter peered over the ebony branches. “Hey man, hey. Hey. You got something for me?”
I looked up from my meditative position with my wife’s lunch pail in my lap. The Drifter was more bothersome than the flies I had encountered all afternoon.
“Sure would like something, mister.” He winked with yellow. “I think you’ve got something for me, don’t you?”
Silently, I offered him the contents in my wife’s lunch pail. Holding out the bin like an opinionated tree branch, I looked away with silent disgust as the Drifter reached his gritted nails into my wife’s lunch pail.
“Well, look what I have here!” he guffawed and chuckled. “This is a meal.”
It was her underwear. Silky and white. See-through. Perfumed. A microscopic tag. It was her underwear.
“Go on,” I sighed. “Go now. Take it. It’s yours.”
The Drifter whistled with his tongue pressed through his gaps and looked at me skeptically.
“Pish! How do I not know these knickers could be time-bombed, ready to blow me asunder by the time I get home? If I ever get home. And what’s more, how do I not know you’re still in love with her? That could truncate my solitary appreciation for panties, it could.”
“Could it?” I returned with a killer's tone .
I looked up to him steadily, gazing through the fogged and mud-speckled lenses of my thirty-six-year-old eye-glasses. The flies burrowed in my brow.
The Drifter took a step backwards and wiped his nose warily. My wife’s underwear still hung like a smile of pearls looped betwixt his avaricious claw. He then gurgled out a hoarse-crackled titter, skipping in a trip and twirling in a solo dosey-do.
What sounded like a stampede and the noise a back-scratcher makes combined together was the Drifter's song:
“Hey man, hey, do you hear the brother rhyme?
Hey man, hey, can you tell me please the time?
Hey man, hey, can you spare me just a dime?
Hey man, hey, you forgot to add the lime!
I was a worker for the government
I shined the shoes of lords
But then one day they sacked me
Now I lie on wooden boards
I walk from sandy pueblo
To gusty towns of gold
I’ve spied American models
And ripped them from their mold
But never in my lifetime
Did I get a gift like this
O trick-or-treat, my lassy
Come, take me by the wrist
Hey man, hey, did you hear the mother plea?
Hey man, hey, did you tell the goats to flee?
Hey man, hey, did you spare me any brie?
Hey man, hey, you forgot to set me free!”
Now he was no more than a speck in the distant orange, and The Drifter's prize shimmered farewell to me.
I continued to grin as the heat boiled my sweltering mind and spread the flies like jam across my visage. I was a dessert in the desert, and my sweet sugar soul revenge was sweet.
That was the last time my wife ever put her underwear in her lunch pail.
