I was sitting on the front porch whistling. I remembered something my father said about the beeps on kitchen equipment, the chimes of door ajar warnings, and the back-up alarm on the back-ho digging up the sewage system in my back yard. I whistled trying to match the tone. Whoo, whoo, whoo. Should be in the key of B. I think my father said B. I was tone deaf, however, and glad to be alone on the porch butchering even the sound of an earth mover.
Tone deaf but a hell of a speechwriter. I gave a toast two nights ago at Georgie’s wedding. The reception was held in my house. Madness it was, bridesmaids danced naked amongst my irrigation and used their dresses likes whips lashing each other’s big behinds. The cracks of derriere welts echoed off my neighbors garages. The cops came out once. I gave them a toast that silenced their sirens. I wondered if the sirens were some B arpeggio.
The groomsmen, sans myself, were worn out from the bachelor party. I had laid down for a two-hour nap before the wedding and hid my dark circles under a pair of gleaming blue eyes. Not my words: Hers. Oh and she, can’t remember her name. You think bridesmaids are indistinguishable in the same dress and hair do, just wait until they are dancing naked in your yard with dripping hair and crying mascara. But she said it.
Her compliment was better than any speech I had ever written. Effective, charismatic, and a call to action. And a call to the plumber who told me to call the back-ho to dig out the rubber I flushed down the toilet before she and I fell asleep together in a hot bath.
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