Thursday, April 28, 2016

The Square Peg - Bingo Boob



The Square Peg - Bingo Boob
© S. Bradley Stoner

I’d just finished my twice weekly battle with the green monster that is my lawn. Normally, this is a once a week affair, but the wet spring foiled my plans of leisurely weeks spent enjoying my yard. It has turned rogue on me. The bushes are crowding each other out and I know as soon as I get a reasonably dry couple of days that I am going to have to get out the hedge trimmers, the pole saw, the loppers, and the nippers. I also know that, since the majority of the shrubs out there grow thorns, it’s going to be a bloody battle. Especially when I tackle that overgrown Bougainvillea... that dang thing comes with three inch spears, and they’re everywhere on it. Oh, I know, I could hire somebody to trim them up, but I’m a little stubborn, not to mention a tad tight... the penurious kind, not the liquor kind.

Anyway, I had just finished putting away my mower... yeah, the old 3 HP gas job EPA wants to ban, but I keep it in proper working order so, pfffft! I was standing at the garage door, trying to catch the slight breeze to cool off a bit and trying not to drown in my own sweat. Humidity will do that to you... and we have no shortage of humidity, at least not this year. I hear footsteps approaching. I know it’s Bob. I’ve learned to recognize his gait. I thought about bolting and activating the garage door opener (actually closer in this case), but it was too far and Bob was too close. Damn!

“Hi Bob,” I sighed. “’Sup?”

Bob scratched his backside. That’s never a good sign. “Um... can I talk to you about... well, it’s kind of private.”

“Well, if it’s private, maybe you should talk to your wife about it.”

“Well, see, that’s the problem...” He paused and shuffled his feet before scratching his rear again.

Again, I wanted to run... far and fast, but I was kind of stuck. If I made for the door to the house, he’d just follow, figuring I’d invite him inside where private things can be discussed unimpeded by nosy neighbors. Bad plan. So I just said, “So?”

“It’s kind of about her...”

Oh great. I groaned mentally. I make it a policy to stay out of people’s personal problems, especially if they involve spouses. “Geez, Bob, I’d rather not get involved...”

“Oh, it’s not that!” he quickly replied. “The marriage is fine.”

I kind of wondered about that since I hadn’t seen Bob’s better half in over a week, which is kind of unusual. I thought of the old boy back in Montana who, when asked where his wife was, would routinely reply that she was in the back yard garden. Turned out he wasn’t lying... she was there alright, turning into worm and rose food. As I recall, they hauled him and his mistress off to the pokey for a very long time. I digress. Bad habit, I know. “So what is it then?”

“Well, um,” he stumbled, “I’m thinking maybe I should get her a lift.”

“Can’t she use the stairs anymore?”

Bob looked confused for a moment, then blurted, “Oh, not that kind of lift... she’s just getting a little saggy. You know what I mean?”

“Geez, Bob, what’s your wife... thirty five maybe? She doesn’t look like she needs a lift to me. Heck she barely has laugh lines.”

“Crimeny! Not a face lift, for crying out loud... she has a beautiful face,” Bob was getting loud. He does that when he gets frustrated sometimes. “Her boobs and her butt! Those just aren’t as firm or bouncy as they used to be.”

‘You might want to lower your voice if you don’t want her and the whole neighborhood to know what your contemplating,” I cautioned.

Bob’s eyes darted to the left and right, kind of like a burglar does when he’s worried about the cops. Satisfied that nobody seemed to be in earshot, he lowered his voice and said, “Look... I know you’re a biologist and I just wanted to know what the risks are. I figured you might be able to tell me.

“I’d say your greatest risk is what your wife might do when she hears this plan... she knows where you sleep, you know... and when.”

“Not me, dammit, my wife.”

“Bob, that’s something you need to take up with your family physician. First off, I really don’t know much about reconstructive surgery, butt lifts or boob jobs, and second I don’t want to be a principal in any lawsuits. Besides, what does she think about it? Has she been complaining, or is this a ‘Bob wants,’ kind of thing.”

“You’re no help at all,” Bob’s mood soured. “I might as well be talking to a brick wall.”

“Well, you could always ask Duncan. I’m sure he would have an opinion of some sort.”

“Are you out of your ever-lovin’ mind? I might as well get on a P.A. system as ask him,” he growled and stalked off in the direction of his home.

I don’t suppose Bob thought about me being a writer. And, after all, he did say only that the subject matter was private... and I don’t recall a thing being said about confidentiality. On the other hand, I probably ought to come with a warning label.