My Loyal Friends

It was a miserable sultry night, and even the fireflies were too hot and tired to fire up. There was not a breath of air stirring and I was once again giving thoughts to moving to New Brunswick or Northwestern Ontario. Yes, this was the kind of weather that knocks you for a loop and seemingly saps your soul. I had a good book to read but the thought of holding the bloody thing and then having to turn the pages was too much. Just thinking about it exhausted me.

I was beginning to lapse into one of those “woe is me” moods when I heard scratching on the window screen. Look­ing up I saw a startling sight. It was hor­rible, but I couldn’t take my eyes off it. here were two faces pressed against the screen. One was my old army buddy, Eddie, in full black-out camouflage face paint, and the other was Brownie the cat, decked out likewise in camo-paint.

Brownie said, “Let us in, you big dope,” and by the way she was slurring her meowing, so I knew she and Eddie had been drinking and that she was well on her way to being hammered. For you new readers, let me explain that when Eddie buys a case of beer, Brownie be­comes his best buddy because Eddie al­ways carries a bowl with him, pours beer in it, and puts it down for old Brown­nose

who laps it up in vigorous fashion. Now without further ado, back to our riveting narrative.

Well, I let these two beauties in, be­cause my dear bride, Suzie, was off on one of her all-night quilting drinkath­ons

where they attempt to finish a quilt before they pass out; otherwise I could not have brought them in. You see, Ed­die and “Cupcake” don’t often see eye to eye and when Brownie is half-barreled she and the bride clash, to put it mildly. Eddie opened a beer, poured some in a saucer for Brownie and said, “Brownie and I have been talking and she’s got some complaints she wants to chat with you about and then I’ve got some big news Bill, some big news.”

“Don’t repeat yourself, Eddie, just get on with it,” I said.

“O.K., Brownie, go ahead,” he said. “All right, you big dope, here’s the deal,” Brownie said. “I’m tired of the cheap cat food you’ve been buying and tossing my way. How come I never get lobster or crabmeat or beef liver like some of the other cats in the neighbor­hood?” Now Eddie also told me some really startling news that shook me right down to my double paws. He told me that my life was saved when the townspeople defeated that crazy madness called the Proposition 2 _ override. He said if it wasn’t for common sense prevailing that I would be dead now. He said if that went through I was going to be put on half rations and if that didn’t work you and I would have moved to Maine.

“Is that right, Bill, is it Bill, is it? I know you would have gone up to the wilderness by West Forks and I wouldn’t have lasted two days up there with the eagles, hawks, owls, fox, coyotes, fisher, marten and bobcats all over the place. What kind of father are you anyhow?”

Well, I thought to myself, this is great. Eddie’s blitzed, the cat’s blitzed, and I’m the only one sober. I hate it when this happens so I did the only thing I could think of, I changed the subject. “Well, Eddie,” I asked, “what’s your big news scoop?” Eddie looked at me and mumbled through his camouflage make-up, “Bill, you’re not going to like my story any better. It’s a tale of great woe, of an im­pending tragedy and you my friend are in the eye of a firestorm.” Then Eddie told me the details of a diabolical plan being hatched in Town Hall. He explained “Brownie and I were in there prowling about on Sunday last and saw a folder marked ‘Top Secret’ and in it were the plans for ‘Operation Dump Bill’ so naturally I read it and here are the details.” “You know they hate you and me and Brownie, but especially you, Bill.” “Why especially me, Eddie?” I rather naively asked. “Oh wake up and smell the coffee you big lard-head,” Eddie exclaimed. “If I have to spell it out for you I will. They’re terrified you will run for selectman and straighten everything out. They know you would win big-time, what with your boyish good looks, trim, taut, figure, your grasp of what’s right and wrong, your keen judgment and all. I mean let’s face it, Bill, you’re the whole package. You’re adored by women, you exude raw sex appeal, and men are in awe of you. All of that plus I may have acciden­tally

mentioned the fact that you have a folder called ‘If I Were a Selectman’ in your files to one of them recently when I bumped into him at Crazy Leroy’s all-you-can-eat fried chicken buffet and beer hall.” “Why did you do that, Eddie?” I asked. “Well, Bill, he bought me three beers so I had to give him something,” came the reply. “O.K., Eddie,” I said, “what is their plan?” “Well, O.K., Bill, here goes,” my camouflaged secret leaker explained. “You know the line they used to push the school through, that it was too old, was in poor repair, and it had to be re­placed, and a whole bunch of people believed it and we’re spending a gazil­lion dollars in the worst economic time since the Great Depression to build a school we don’t need? Well guess what Bill, they’re going to condemn every­body’s

house that’s over sixty years old because you know, it’s not safe and it is going to fall down, and then they will round everybody up and march you all to Pondville Hospital and make you live in there, and they figure that you, being the strong, aggressive and manly stud you are will say the hell with it and pack up and go to Maine and you’ll be out of their hair. Get it Bill, get it? They really think that when you see some of the weaker folks begin to glow in the dark up there you’ll grab Suzie, Brownie, and me and head north.

“By the way Bill, all this stuff didn’t come totally from me. Brownie ratted you out too. Jay the bartender over at the joint invited her over for some prime rib and a few beers and got a bunch of info from her. So it wasn’t all me, Bill, she had a hand in this, too. And you know how friendly one of the select­men is with Jay so put two and two to­gether.” “Well, Eddie, this is great, just great, being sold down the river by the two of you knuckleheads,” I said. “You know Bill,” Eddie replied, “there’s a sweet way out of this, why not write that article, ‘If I Were a Se­lectman,” and the people will see how solid and deep you are and it will stop this sixty-year-old house idea dead in its tracks.” Well folks, we’re out of space ….. this will be continued next week.