Dean J. Baker

Cousin Harold Meets Ms Crankypants – 3

It was one of those days where everything seemed still in the air; every effort hung like a question mark, the air conditioner was a white hole eating everything, and spewing only hope for respite.

I was actually making some food when there was a loud knock and Cousin Harold came thumping in.

“That for me?”
“No, Harold. That for me.”

Kind of reminded me of my non-english speaking aunt who would call asking for my Dad. I’d pick up the phone and there’d be a “Dat Joe?”
First time I wondered who the fuck this is. Some retard off the street selling jam for feet or ice for freezers, something useful and predatory.
I said, “What?”
“Dat Joe?”
Initially, I’d say just a minute and get my father. But it got to the point where I’d say to my father, Dat Joe is on the phone. He’d just sort of laugh and say, “Could speak better of your relatives.”
I thought she’s about as much my relative as the garden squash, and has the same linguistic capabilities.
Next time she called, there was the usual, “Dat Joe”?
So I said, “No, Dat Dean.”
“Dat Joe?”
“No, Dat Dean. Dat Joe not here.”
Click.
Oh well, so much for me bettering the planet through my human relations’ skills.

I was brought out of my reveries by a vaguely annoying sound that reminded me of a WW2 bomb dropping in a black and white film.
Harold stood there grinning at me.
“Sorry, had cabbage for lunch.”
All the wild cats on the porch and standing on the windowsills promptly rolled over and ran off.
“Must have a date, eh Harold?”

“I’d swear you’re psychic. Yes! I have to meet this honey down the street at Bumpsies in half an hour and I thought I’d better get some tips from the master.”
“Hey Harold, what’d the leper say to the prostitute? Keep the tip – so sorry, Harold, ran out of tips. Besides, you can pick your own off the drugstore shelf for about $5.”
“C’mon….”
“Harold, I do some writing, but I’m hardly one to advise you when it comes to women.”
“Yes, you can, Dean. Your father has told me about all the women you’ve had come around.”
“Harold, they were just errant Jehovah Witnesses looking for a place to rest their feet, or needing a gardener, always wanting donations, and belief. I made sure their toes were relaxed, the soil was tilled, and the donation a memory. Nothing special. Anyway, I’m not for hire. The last one I talked with sailed ship with a donkey, another woman, and a bag of pistachios.”
“They do that, eh?” Harold said with what passed for a sly grin.
“Harold, the cats do that.”

“Well, maybe I could see her.”
“I never saw her, Harold. She kept saying she was going to come up here and visit when I talked with her, but after a series of ‘just a second’ when I’d hear some damn strange noises erupting from the phone, she chickened out.”
“Perfect for me! If she chickens out, no loss; if she doesn’t, I get a date.”
“What about the woman waiting down the street?”
Harold had grabbed a beer from the fridge in the meantime, and came back into the kitchen after a tremendous noise.
“Don’t slam the fridge door, Harold!”
“That wasn’t the door,” Harold replied, smiling like Buddha.

I thought about the prospect of unleashing Cousin Harold on the woman. Yes. Truly perfect.

“Alright, Harold. I’ll call her. I am certain she’d be glad to meet you.”
“Well do it, now.”

The phone rang. Serendipity. And yippy. I answered and it was her, squawking out,”Well where the fuck have you been, hiding out with trolls?”
Thank you, Jesus.
I said, “No, entertaining my Cousin Harold. He’s a writer, too.” I neglected to mention that Harold did his writing on various indoor Poop Room walls.
“Can I meet him? Anything to do with you is magical. You’re my obsession.”
Fuck me gently.

“Sure, he’d be glad to meet you.”
“What’s he look like – not that I’m concerned about that – but just curious.”
“Sort of like a cross between Magilla Gorilla, and Bluto.”
“Right on. Let’s do it.”
I told her Harold would meet her right away, done deal, and hung up.

“Harold, you have a date. One hour. In the shopping mall.”
“Where in the mall?”
“The parking lot. She’s a little concerned about her security.”

Harold ran off and began slicking his hair down, tightening the belt, and generally huffing and puffing. Certain as all guys he’d get the girl, treat her well, and he could then go back to whatever his vocation was while she sat at home, ate bon bons, cursed her fate, and planned where to stand when she whacked him over the head as he came in the door.

I’d barely settled down to eat my meal when Harold came thumping back in, and sat down, eyes star-gazed.
“So, that was quick. She have binoculars and spot you coming?”

“She was very lovely, thin, and smart as hell. Sexy in her sweet unassuming air. But as I got to her, something happened.
She was very casually dressed, yet nice. With thought for her look, and the affect. Ordinary, yet elegant.
I held out my hand and said, Hi, I’m Harold. At that very moment, her face turned red, she squeezed her fists together – sort of reminded me of that little nimrod in the restaurant awhile back – and just blew the biggest gas I have ever heard creep from some female’s backdoor beehive.
Not to be outdone, I threw up the Pepsi I’d just had to calm myself and the rumblings of an empty stomach, and a loud belch erupted.”

Twins, I thought.

“So, what’s the future hold, Harold? Sounds perfect for you.”
“It’s like that herd instinct you were telling me about one time. We’re due for each other.”
“Harold, I was distinguishing between the hard instinct, so to speak, and the herd instinct of violent sheep. You know, mad ewes chomping down on you because they see another doing it; and saying that if they got their hard instinct together, there’d likely be no sheep action.”
“Oh,” was Harold’s singular reply as he gazed off, drooling.
“Come on, Harold, you’re looking like a bridegroom already. When’s the happy day?”

“Well, she has to have her colon checked, and I need to have those Easter Island heads on my bunghole popped out or whatever, then we’re off on vacation.”

Harold, never shy.

“How do you know she’s the one, Harold?”
“We said our hellos, like I said. Then we took a stroll through the department store because she said she’d like to do something else.
I was looking at getting some brand new T-shirts for the occasion, and I couldn’t help it. A family was across the aisle and I strained but couldn’t stop the ass trumpet from going off.
I thought I was done. The husband looked like he’d kill me, and the wife looked at him like ‘well, there’s your buddy.’

Next thing I knew, Ms. Crankypants was coming down the aisle, yelling, “I’ve found you!” Big smile on her face, not like the others who would always make me feel second-rate.”

Imagine that, I thought.

I could see the conversations now. Harold in one part of the country would pick up the phone, and arrrk into it; and his beloved, Ms.Crankypants would thrust the receiver against her ass like a small but unloved dog, and bark back.
Young lovers.

Oh Happy Day.

©Dean J. Baker

©Dean J. Baker and deanjbaker.wordpress.com, 2010. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material that appears here or has appeared here without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Dean J. Baker and deanjbaker.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

January 1, 2010 Posted by deanjbaker | Canadian Poets, Cousin Harold, Dean J. Baker, Family, Humor, Life, Ontario, Poets, Prose Poems, Satire, Toronto | Canadian Poetry, Candian Literature, Poetry, Prose Poems | 6 Comments