My Southern Exposure
I was raised around wood stoves and fireplaces. The natural gas stoves down south were a bit of a mystery to me.
Had a buddy George that I tried to kill a few times, just before I met my bride.
He was a long tall Texan, cowboy hat, boots and all.
Six foot five and about six inches across.
I called him 'Two By' (the hat and boots didn't help).
Face’d make an onion cry.
We shared a flat in Houston just off Telephone road, where we hung our hats. He was a truck driver, and I an oil field pipe inspector, of which jobs were plenty 'cause people were getting killed all the time.
One cold morn', when we both were home at the same time, I commenced to build a fire.
This little stove had a worn metal placard on it that read 'ARNIN', and a bunch of tiny words with a picture of a flame.
I cranked up ol' ARNIN, struck several matches, and called on Two By's help.
He jerked the matches away from me, folded his string of a body, and turned the pilot knob, holding it in, looking at me like, 'you yankee idiot'.
He hunched down, putting his face close to the pilot tube, and put the lit match over it.
WHOOOOSH!
You could actually see the force of the explosion as it immediately blew through and past his scraggly bearded mug.
It was like a cartoon, side burns, beard singed to black nubs, eyebrows, nose hairs gone, hairless outstretched arm still holding the extinguished match.
He eventually looked back at me, face smoking, like 'why are you trying to kill me, you won the war'.
The other time was when I poisoned him.
He had pneumonia from jumping in and out of his air-conditioned cab.
So there he lay on the couch, hacking his lungs up into a beer can, looking skinnier than what was normal for even him.
I felt sorry.
"Hey, how 'bout a bacon sandwich?"
'Yeah, toast the bread", cough, hork, groan.
The bacon in the fridge looked a bit ancient (coulda' been new cheese), but I scraped off the green stuff and fried it up, and even added tomato slices to my creation (coulda' been a red bell pepper).
I watched as he commenced to wolf it down between coughs. While hacking, he’d look at my culinary masterpiece, quizzically peeling back the bread and examining the contents, then after relishing the last crumb, laid back down.
I cleaned the kitchen, doing the dishes with my hand cleaner and tidying up. My work was done here.
I heard him stir a bit. Then he gave out a little suppressed choke/cough and immediately launched his lunch, blowing chips all over his lap.
Never before had I ever heard anything like the groan coming from what seemed his lower intestines.
Writhing on the floor in your own chewings is not becoming for anyone.
Two weeks later he was outta the hospital and driving again.
Thank god I met up with my lady shortly after, and her cookin' took over.
BLT anyone?
I was raised around wood stoves and fireplaces. The natural gas stoves down south were a bit of a mystery to me.
Had a buddy George that I tried to kill a few times, just before I met my bride.
He was a long tall Texan, cowboy hat, boots and all.
Six foot five and about six inches across.
I called him 'Two By' (the hat and boots didn't help).
Face’d make an onion cry.
We shared a flat in Houston just off Telephone road, where we hung our hats. He was a truck driver, and I an oil field pipe inspector, of which jobs were plenty 'cause people were getting killed all the time.
One cold morn', when we both were home at the same time, I commenced to build a fire.
This little stove had a worn metal placard on it that read 'ARNIN', and a bunch of tiny words with a picture of a flame.
I cranked up ol' ARNIN, struck several matches, and called on Two By's help.
He jerked the matches away from me, folded his string of a body, and turned the pilot knob, holding it in, looking at me like, 'you yankee idiot'.
He hunched down, putting his face close to the pilot tube, and put the lit match over it.
WHOOOOSH!
You could actually see the force of the explosion as it immediately blew through and past his scraggly bearded mug.
It was like a cartoon, side burns, beard singed to black nubs, eyebrows, nose hairs gone, hairless outstretched arm still holding the extinguished match.
He eventually looked back at me, face smoking, like 'why are you trying to kill me, you won the war'.
The other time was when I poisoned him.
He had pneumonia from jumping in and out of his air-conditioned cab.
So there he lay on the couch, hacking his lungs up into a beer can, looking skinnier than what was normal for even him.
I felt sorry.
"Hey, how 'bout a bacon sandwich?"
'Yeah, toast the bread", cough, hork, groan.
The bacon in the fridge looked a bit ancient (coulda' been new cheese), but I scraped off the green stuff and fried it up, and even added tomato slices to my creation (coulda' been a red bell pepper).
I watched as he commenced to wolf it down between coughs. While hacking, he’d look at my culinary masterpiece, quizzically peeling back the bread and examining the contents, then after relishing the last crumb, laid back down.
I cleaned the kitchen, doing the dishes with my hand cleaner and tidying up. My work was done here.
I heard him stir a bit. Then he gave out a little suppressed choke/cough and immediately launched his lunch, blowing chips all over his lap.
Never before had I ever heard anything like the groan coming from what seemed his lower intestines.
Writhing on the floor in your own chewings is not becoming for anyone.
Two weeks later he was outta the hospital and driving again.
Thank god I met up with my lady shortly after, and her cookin' took over.
BLT anyone?