Childhood Memories (Installment #2: The Letter)

The Letter

Dear John,

Sorry it's been a coon's age since I've written. There's been trouble with a capital "T" down at the plant. Rosa was brought up on charges of money laundering, credit card scams and, the dreaded, grand theft auto. She skipped town and is now on-the-lamb. Pedro is fairing well after the accident. The "hand" looks pretty gruesome, but he really knows how to work it! We were forced to put him in the back, though, so he wouldn't scare the other workers.



I've been hitting the sauce again. It's got a real hold on me, they say. So I don't get the shakes at work, I keep a flask stuffed down my pants filled with gin. I haven't been caught yet. Oh, Lenny has finally left me. I knew it was just a matter of time. I tried hanging myself one afternoon right before he got home from work. No such luck! Lenny got there just as the shower rod ripped out of the friggin' wall and I cracked my head open on the toilet. Boy, did he have a good laugh. He said he was tiring of my suicide attempts and the next time I should just ask him and he would blow my head off for me. Maybe he secretly does care.

Well, there is some good news. Tiny had puppies...thirty of them! It's supposed to be written up in The Guinness Book of World Records. We ended up losing most of them, sadly. It seems Tiny was going through some sort of post-pardem depression and ate most of the litter. The remaining pups are doing fine. We've sent the cajoined ones off with Lenny's cousin who claims to know circus folk.

Gosh, I do rattle on about nothing. Please write soon and send any money you can spare...or you can just send booze...whatever is easier for you and mother.

Eternally grateful and probably damned to hell,

Jean

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Childhood Memories (Installment #1: The Elks Club)

For lack of time (and drive), I'm going to include some short stories to my blog that I penned years ago. Here's "Childhood Memories" (Installment #1)

"The Elks Club"

They drove to what they thought was the Elks Club in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. It wasn't. Instead of being greeted by ol' Jimbo, who had served Mr. O.K. Rickman for nearly a century, they were frisked and cavity searched. Racous rap music poured out into the street.

Disappointment read on their faces. They expected savory, flank steak, potatoes au gratin and a hearty Burgandy, but got nothing but "carded" and called "whitey". It was now a hip-hop club.

The Old Grandad went down easy. Pigs-In-A-Blanket were a plenty. The tunes were hard and crass, but at the same time, soulful.

Auntie was the first to break the ice. She tugged on the black man's arm, "Cleavon, you wanna dance?"

At about three am, Tommy, Becky Jo and Caroline, (spent and with blistered feet) begged Auntie to leave. She would have nothing of it...she loved to party.

As they waved out the back window of the Buick Park Avenue, the sweaty, eighty-three year old, Auntie, winked and shouted, "Call the police if I'm not home by Monday!"

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