Mopping Up
NW Garrett
9/6/2012 r v
Tony Shelton shut
his eyes. He didn't want to believe what he saw.
Waking up in a
strange place was nothing new. Waking up with a raging hangover was not an
unusual occurrence. Waking up in a strange place with a raging hangover in the
presence an angry female was not unheard of.
But waking up in a
strange place, with a raging hangover, in the presence of a angry female holding
a double barrel shotgun two inches from his nose – That was an uncommon
occurrence!
“Don’t you dare
move. One wiggle out of you will make your day, Dirtbag.”
Something in her
voice, the inflection perhaps, the re-arranged Eastwood line, the way she said
‘Dirtbag’ like a reluctant obscenity somehow gave Tony comfort.
Whoever she is, she sounds like a lady and
not some biker mama, Tony thought.
He unsquinted his eyes just enough for a peep.
No biker mama, this one. Whoever she is, she
is a lady and a fine looking one at that. And no stranger to that scatter gun either.
Aiming that thing with both eyes open, rock steady straight at my nose. Geeze!
Tony re-shut his
eyes.
“I can’t believe the
mess you made in my kitchen you – you lowdown burglar. If it wouldn't ruin my
new couch I would shoot you right now. I ought to shoot you right now anyway. I
can buy another couch. Do you think I ought to make you get off my couch before
I shoot you?”
Sometimes, the best answer to a question
is no answer at all. Tony kept his
mouth shut.
He tried to
reconstruct the events that led to his predicament. Yesterday had been a
nightmare. With a one connection, breakfast flight he expected to arrive before
noon. The soiree did not start until four pm so he would have plenty of time to
look over the room and review his script.
The sponsors were
not necessarily his usual audience but a payday is a payday and with a free trip
to the beach to boot, it couldn't be all bad. A speech is a speech.
The nightmare
started after the passengers boarded on schedule only to sit on the tarmac for
hours. When the plane finally took off, rough weather made cabin service
impossible. No breakfast.
The flight diverted
to an alternate airport and another long tarmac sit ensued. The un-served
breakfast meals were off loaded and lunch meals delivered while ground crews
refueled the plane. The pilot
promised food service as soon as the plane took off. Tony’s stomach growled in
anticipation.
Rough weather once
again intervened and no cabin service.
Diverted again, delayed again, no food again - what a day! His stomach
growl became a pitiful whine.
His cell phone quit
working. He had no way of letting
the people expecting him know his problems. The time for his performance came
and went while he bounced around in the sky several hundred miles away.
When the plane
finally landed in Atlanta, he made a mad dash to
concourse D to catch the last flight to Panama City. It made three stops and didn’t
arrive until after midnight but any port in a storm. Still no food but the ASA
stew gave him a handful of bags of peanuts.
Exhausted and
famished, Tony crumpled into his seat thinking, This is the worst day of my life.
The little old lady
in the window seat tapped him on the arm. “You look terrible young man. Are you
having a hard time?”
“You would not
believe the trouble I’ve had traveling today.”
“Oh yes I would, I
travel all the time and that’s why I’ve got Baggie Boo.”
“What‘s
Baggie Boo?”
“My crochet bag –
the big one here with all my cross-stitch stuff in it. It goes where I go. They never bother me about carrying it
onto the plane.”
“That’s nice. I'm
sure you enjoy cross stitching.”
“Yes I do, but not
nearly as much as I enjoy the built in bladder that holds a liter of Puerto
Rican rum - anejo, gold.”
She unscrewed the
handles of her crochet bag turning them into shot cups which she filled, handing
one to Tony.
“Down the hatch and
bottoms up. Chug a lug.”
They did.
The rum hit Tony’s
stomach like napalm and burned all the way to his toes. He dropped his cup and
looked down to see if his socks were on fire.
The little old lady
picked up his cup and re-filled it.
“Drink another one
real quick and they'll mellow out after that.”
He did and they did
– a whole bunch of them.
In fact, he got so mellow that everything after the third chug
went fuzzy.
Not aware of the
circumstances, his sponsors, perturbed over his ‘no show’ canceled his
reservation. The hotel had no rooms
left nor did any other the night clerk could think of.
Finally, Tony
remembered a fraternity brother from years ago who lived at the beach. The clerk
helped him make the call and a cabbie delivered him. Somebody let him in
and poured him on the sofa.
Now he was going to
get shot.
“You are not from
around here, are you? What are you doing here?”
“No, I'm from
New York City.
I‘m here to help raise money for
the Obama campaign.”
“Well – that’s
strike one and strike two. Just keep talking, Mr. Burglar, because I shoot on
three.”
Tony shut
up.
“What gave you the
idea that making a mess in my kitchen is some kind of a political fund raiser?
Don’t answer that. I‘ll just get madder and make a mess in here, too. Get up.
You are going in the kitchen right now. If I shoot you in there at least all the
mess will be in one place. Go through that door.”
Tony walked in the
direction indicated by the shotgun. The kitchen looked like a food fight from
hell. Dirty pots and mixing bowls were all over the counters. Something, looking
every bit like mud, had boiled over on the stovetop and down onto the floor. The
place was indeed a mess but Tony had no memory whatsoever of taking part in the
destruction.
He had no memory of
even being in that kitchen. He certainly had not eaten there. He had not eaten
anywhere for more than 24 hours, unless you count six bags of peanuts and a
quart of rum as supper.
“I know what you are
going to do – you vandal – you are going to clean up my kitchen. And you better
put it back just like I left it or else. Get busy,”
She pulled a chair
into the doorway and sat there glaring, shotgun at the ready.
Tony, grateful for
the reprieve, started cleaning.
Better to have soapsuds in my
eyes than buckshot in my hide.
He soon became so
absorbed in his work that he didn’t notice when Barbara left the room.
“Where have you
been?” she whispered to her husband when she noticed him standing in the living
room.
“Watch out with that
shotgun – that thing might be loaded,”
“It is loaded. Now
tell me where you've been or I'll shoot you too.”
“Whoa, there! I have
been next door talking to Bob - he told me what’s been going on around
here.”
“I know what’s been
going on. I caught him. He’s in there cleaning up my kitchen and he'd better do
a good job or I'm going to shoot him and tell the Sheriff to put him under the
jail. You won't believe what a mess he made in my kitchen.”
“Calm down. Watch
out where you are pointing that shotgun. You ought to put that thing up. The
kids were here. They expected us the day after tomorrow. They didn't know we
were coming back early. Bob didn't either. Along, with the rest of our friends,
they were planning a ‘Welcome Home’ party for us.
In the process of
fixing enough food to feed fifty people, the chilli boiled over at about
the same time an emergency call came in telling them to come home right away.
Our daughter-in law’s mom had an accident- she’s o k – but she couldn't continue
to baby sit the grandkids without help. They put the food in the freezer and
left their house key with Bob. They asked him to call Mini - Maids out to clean
up the kitchen before we got home and send them the bill.
He thought he had
plenty of time.
An old friend of his
– a fraternity brother from college – called him in the middle of the night. The
guy is some kind of a famous writer from New York. He was stranded at the airport and
drunker than a hoot owl. The cabbie stopped at our house instead of Bob’s and
managed to half carry the fellow up to our front door. Bob came over when he saw
the taxi at the wrong house. Then the ol’ boy passed out cold. Bob had our key
in his pocket so they just brought him in here and put him on the sofa. Bob knows that he is all right and
didn't think we would mind. Besides, we were out of town and never would have
known unless he told us.”
“Wait a minute,”
Barbara said. She turned and walked
into the kitchen still holding her shotgun. She stood there for a long moment
surveying the room. Slowly she backed into the living room motioning for her
husband to join her at the far end.
“He has finished
washing all the pots and the dishes and he did a good job of cleaning the stove
top and counters. He is working on the floor now and appears to be doing a good
job there too.”
“Don’t you think you
ought to go in there and tell him that you are sorry and that you are not going
to shoot him?”
“Well, yes and no.
I'm going to wait until he finishes mopping the floor. He is doing such a nice
job that it would be unfair to interrupt him right now. Then I will apologize
for calling him a burglar.”
“Aren't you going to
apologize for saying that you were going to shoot him?”
“No, why should I? I
didn't and he ought to be proud of that. He’s not exactly an invited guest. He
nearly scared me slap to death when I came in and found him all sprawled out on
my new sofa – with his shoes on!
Granted, he may not
be a burglar but he is a Yankee and a democrat - that’s worse than being a
burglar. That alone ought to be reason enough to shoot him but I know it’s not.
I certainly will not
apologize but I will compliment him on how well he mops.”
______________________________
Wayne Garrett grew
up on buttermilk, sweet tea and South Georgia
sunshine. A retired resident of Panama City, FL, he is a member of the Panama City Writers
Association and is one of the Bay Storytellers. His work has been published in
The Sea Oats Review, Sand Scripts, The West Florida Literary Federation‘s
Emerald Coast Review, City Limits and other panhandle publications. Humor is his
genre; a laugh or a smile his reward.