Short Stories To Tickle Your Funnybone (3 page)

After
a
week that had included three
grisly
murders, I was looking forward to a couple of
days off.

Sometimes, when man’s depravity
becomes too intense, you have to just back away
from it all, focus on what’s good in your life and
put things back in perspective.

Maggie had let me sleep in and I awoke to
the smell of coffee brewing and bacon sizzling. I
could tell that this was going to be a good day.

I ambled into the kitchen, gave Maggie a
big hug and kiss and headed for the coffee pot.
After a year of marriage, I had learned how to
order my priorities.

“Pancakes, too! What have I done to
deserve all of this?”
“You’re going to need lots of energy
today, so I figured I’d better start you off with a
good breakfast.”
Suddenly, a cloud darkened my prospects
for a good day.
“Energy? For what?”
“Don’t give me that ‘for what’. Surely you
remember when we
talked about cleaning
the
apartment today.”
Now I’ll be the first to admit that
sometimes --- not often, but sometimes, Maggie’s
little chats will zip right by, especially if I’m
reading the sports page or otherwise intellectually
occupied, but surely I would remember something
as ominous as cleaning day.
I had to make a split-second decision --should I refute us ever having that conversation
and try to wiggle out? No, I knew that either way,
I was doomed to cleaning, so why add insensitive,
non-listening, boob into the picture.
“Oh, right --- sure --- cleaning. Must have
slipped my mind. How much cleaning are we
talking about, exactly?”
“Everything! Top to bottom. It’s been
months since this place had had a good cleaning.”
I tried one more tactic. Maggie is still an
active Realtor and has a woman that cleans vacant
houses for some of her clients.
“How about Consuela. Did you think about
giving her a call?”
“Consuela charges three hundred bucks to
clean a place this size. Why spend all that money
when we can do it ourselves? Do you realize how
many meals at Mel’s Diner you could buy for that
three hundredbucks?”
I had to admit that she was good.
I’m not opposed to saving a few bucks if
it’s a job that I can handle, but a man has to know
his limits.
For instance, I can change light bulbs and
replace
light
switches
and
sockets
without
electrocuting
myself
and
usually
everything
actually comes on when I’m finished, but I learned
years ago that plumbing of any sort was not my
cup of tea.
No matter what I tried to fix, it always
leaked when I was through.
Cars are another thing that I have never
mastered.
I have friends that brag about changing
their oil or putting on a new set of brakes, but
there is not a doubt in my mind that if I tried, I
would be washing my windows with 30 weight.
Consequently, I’m on a first name basis
with the guy at Jiffy Lube.
House cleaning. Not a lot of experience,
but how hard could it be?
I drug breakfast out as long as possible, but
I finally had to face the inevitable.
“Ok, boss. What’s the plan?”
“Why don’t you start with the ceiling fans
and give them a good dusting.”
“Ceiling fans?” I protested. “They’re up in
the air. How could they get dirty?”
“Have you even looked at them lately?”
I had to admit that I had not. I climbed on a
chair and discovered that the blades had grown a
fluffy coat of fur.
“I see your point,” I said. “What are you
going to do?”
“I’ll dust and polish the furniture. I don’t
want you touching our breakable
stuff.
No
offense.”
“None taken.”
I
found
our stepladder
and a
rag
and
climbed up to the first fan. I wiped the blade clean
and gave it a shove. Blade #2 whacked me in the
back of my head.
“SON-Of-A ---” I muttered.
Just then Maggie came into the room.
“What are you doing?”
“Cleaning the fans just like you asked,” I
said, rubbing my head, “and trying to decapitate
myself in the process.”
“Why don’t you use the thing?”
“What thing?”
“Hang on.”
She came back into the room with a big
furry circular thing on a pole.
“Here, this is what you’re supposed to use
to clean the blades.”
“Where did that come from?”
“You bought it when you bought the new
fans.”
“I did? Really? Where do we keep it?”
“In the utility closet.”
That explained a lot. The utility closet is
where
we
keep things
like
the vacuum, the
squeege mop and the broom. I don’t go there.
The thing actually worked pretty well and
when I was finished I reported to the crew boss.
“Fans are done. What’s next?”
“The toilets and the floor around the
toilets. Scrub them all.”
“Why do I get the toilets? You use them
too.”
Maggie grabbed me by the arm, drug me to
the bathroom and lifted the lid.
“See all of that yellow stuff? How do you
suppose that it got there?”
Nothing sucks more than that moment in a
discussion when you know you are going to lose.
“Okay, okay, you made your point.”
I
was
up
to
my
elbows
in
Lysol
disinfectant when there was a knock on the door.
“I’ll get it,” Maggie yelled.
A moment later, Jerry and the Professor
were standing in the hallway watching me wash
the yellow spots off of the floor. Not one of my
prouder moments.
“We were on our way to Mel’s for lunch
and we thought we’d invite you to accompany us,”
the Professor said, “but I can see that you’re --ummm --otherwise occupied.”
“Yes, cleaning day, unfortunately. Sorry,
I’d love to come.”
“One of those necessary evils,” he
continued. “Were you aware that most of the dust
particles in a home are from the 2 to 3 pounds of
dead skin that we shed each year?”
I had to admit that I didn’t know that.
He forged on, “And did you know that the
dead skin and dust mites in a mattress can double
its weight in ten years?”
I didn’t know that either.
Jerry
had been watching
me scrub the
offending stains.
“Walt, do you know what a clitoris, an
anniversary and a toilet all have in common?”
Maggie poked her head around the corner.
“I know the answer to that one --- men always
miss them!”
“Very funny,” I mumbled. “Don’t you
guys have somewhere to be?”
“Indeed we do,” the professor said. “We’ll
eat a piece of Mel’s banana cream pie for you.
You know, the one with the meringue this high.”
“Thanks a lot!”
Maggie stuck her head back in the door.
“When you’re finished with the toilets, you can
run the vacuum.
“Swell,” I muttered.
As I fired up the old Kirby, I remembered
a one-liner that Jerry had used in his comedy club
act.
“Is it a good thing if a vacuum really
sucks?”
It brought a smile to my face and I really
needed it.
I had just finished the bedroom and had
started on the closet. The shoes were lined up
neatly on the floor, but I saw a big piece of lint
under one shoe.
I bumped the shoe with the Kirby to move
it out of the way and suddenly, “THWACK!” The
Kirby had sucked up the shoelace that had wound
around the revolving head. The poor shoe was
lodged against the head and the motor began to
smoke.
I quickly shut the thing off and surveyed
the damage.
The sweeper head looked like the first time
that I had tried to cast an open faced reel --nothing but a tangled mess.
I was just getting the thing undone when
Maggie came in.
“Don’t ask,” I said.
She looked over my shoulder. “How long
have you been working on that?”
I looked at my watch. “About fifteen
minutes.”
“How long would it have taken you to pick
up the shoe?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. I hate it
when she does that.
After
the
mess was untangled
and the
smoke
cleared, I
finished the vacuuming
and
headed to the kitchen.
“Let’s clean out the fridge and we’re
done,” Maggie said.
“Really?” At last there was light at the end
of the tunnel.
I pulled the wastebasket to the fridge and
opened the door.
I don’t spend a lot of time in the fridge. I
get milk for my cereal and Arbor Mist from the
shelves in the door. Everything else is pretty much
a mystery to me.
I did recognize the first thing that I pulled
out. It was the remains of the burrito grande that I
couldn’t finish at the restaurant a couple of weeks
ago, so I had had them wrap it up for me. I was
pretty sure that the green stuff on it now wasn’t
verde sauce.
Maggie told me to get rid of anything that
had expired.
With most of the stuff, I didn’t even have
to look for a date. The penicillin growing on the
surface was a good clue.
I saw a carton of sour cream and wondered
if they even bothered to put an expiration date on
it --isn’t it already sour?
By the time I had removed all
of the
offensive stuff, the shelves were nearly empty.
I was tying the trash bag when Maggie
came into the kitchen.
“Are we finished?” I asked, trying to sound
as weary as possible.
“Just one more thing,” she said with a sly
smile.
“What could possibly be left to clean?” I
asked, exasperated.
“The shower. I was hoping we could work
on that together.”
Maybe it would be a good day after all.
****************************************
An excerpt from
Lady Justice and the Book
Club Murders
http://booksbybob.com/lady-justice-andthe-book-club-murders_370.html

I
couldn't believe
that
the Captain had
asked me to go undercover as a transvestite.
I figured if I had to dress up as a dame, my
best bet was to enlist the aid of Maggie, my
sweetie.
After supper, I saw my opening.
“So what exciting things did you do
today?” she asked.
“I’ve got something to talk to you about
and I don’t want you to interrupt me or ask any
questions until I’m completely finished, OK?”
Her
look
of
bewilderment
turned
to
astonishment and finally to amusement as I laid
the whole story on the table.
I could tell she was doing her best to keep
from laughing.
“You think this is funny, don’t you?”
“Well, yea!”
Not exactly the reaction I was expecting.
“I’ve always wanted a girlfriend I could
shop with and share make-up secrets. This is going
to be fun.”
Yeah, a real hoot!
For reasons I’ll never understand, Maggie
attacked her role with a vengeance. She composed
a list of all the accoutrements we would need for
my transformation and then started checking off
items she had on hand.
Apparently, women are
loath to throw
away make-up, even if it’s stuff they haven’t used
for ages and Maggie produced a plastic tub full of
jars and tubes that she pronounced as perfect.
Evidently
the
same
rules
apply
with
selected articles of clothing. Maggie is a svelte
120 pounds now, but sometime in the distant past,
she must have been a few pounds heavier. A box
from the spare room closet labeled ‘save’
contained frilly relics from her heftier days.
After comparing items on hand with her
inventory list, Maggie was satisfied that the only
articles we were lacking were a dress, shoes and a
wig.
Tomorrow, we would shop.
Just to be
sure
everything
was right,
Maggie
insisted
on
a
trial
fitting
of
the
undergarments and proceeded to pull a pair of
lacey panties, a bra and pantyhose from her stash.
“OK, Buster, strip.”
On more than one occasion, those very
words from Maggie were music to my ears.
Not this time.
I’m definitely not a prude, especially when
it comes to Maggie, but I’m more accustomed to
us getting nekkid together.
“I’ll just do this in here,” I
said as I
grabbed the panties and bra and headed for the
bathroom.
As I slipped off my BVD’s and picked up
the panties, I encountered my first dilemma.
Is there a front and a back to these things?
How can you tell without a fly? Then I saw the
little tag and assumed that was the backside.
So far, so good.
Next came the bra.
My previous experience with this garment
had focused on removal rather than installation
and I nearly dislocated my shoulders trying to
hook the damn thing behind my back.
I concluded that one had to be either a
contortionist or double-jointed to master this, and
I, being neither of those, gave up and retreated to
the bedroom.
I explained my problem to Maggie and she
gave me a quick lesson on ‘hook in front and
rotate to the back’. A valuable lesson.
Since my chest wasn’t exactly designed to
fill the size ‘C’ cups, Maggie augmented my
bosom with wadded up pantyhose.
While in the pantyhose pile, she selected a
dark pair she described as ‘smoke’.
“Try these on. I think they’re dark enough
you won’t have to shave your legs.”
“You damn right I won’t. That’s where I
draw the line. I’ll just tell people I’m from
Sweden.”
She handed me the pantyhose and I looked
at the tiny ball of material.
“That’s not big enough for one leg. How
am I going to get two, plus my butt in there?”
“Just put them on. Trust me. They
expand.”
So I sat on the bed and started pulling them
up one leg at a time and sure enough, they did
expand.
But as I stood, I was beginning to get
signals from Mr. Winkie and the boys.
“Kind of crowded in here,” I complained.
“Yea,” she quipped. “Pantyhose are a lot
like cheap hotels --no ballroom.”
She was having way too much fun with
this.
Now that I was all decked out in my bra
and pantyhose, Maggie stepped back to take a look
at her handiwork.
“Not bad,” she declared. “In fact, I think
I’m getting a little turned on.”
The evening wasn’t a total loss after all.
Maggie had no appointments the next
morning, so we headed to the Salvation Army
Thrift Store to complete my outfit.
I’ve never been much of a shopper. Guys
don’t have to be. I have two kinds of pants, dress
and casual. If I need a pair, I go to the store, grab
my size off the rack and check out. No need to try
it on. It’s exactly like the one I’m replacing.
But I’ve never bought a dress.
As we
rummaged
through the
racks,
Maggie would pull one out and hold it up in front
of me. I found myself saying stuff like, “No,
that’s just not right for me” or “I think we can do
better.”
What was happening to me?
I actually tried one on and asked Maggie if
it made my butt look big.
Where did that come from?
Finally, I found one that felt just right. It
was the perfect shade of brown to bring out the
color in my eyes and while not slutty, was just
tight enough to accent my figure.
My God, what did I just say?
Our next stop was the wig rack.
There was a huge selection of both colors
and lengths.
I had always heard that blondes have more
fun, so I tried on a saucy blonde pageboy with
bangs.
I looked like Phyllis Diller.
I told Maggie I needed something shoulder
length, fuller, with more body.
What was happening to me?
I finally settled on a dark auburn with flirty
bangs that matched my dress perfectly.
Shoes were a different story.
I wear a size nine and a half which is
average for a guy. By comparison, Ox wears a size
twelve.
But finding a woman’s shoe in a low heel
that would fit a guy proved to be a challenge. We
had to hit three thrift stores before we found
something I could walk in.
‘Walk in’ might be too generous. ‘Wobble
in’ would be more accurate.
My new footwear sported two-inch heels,
nothing remarkable for the ladies, but a definite
challenge for me.
Maggie and I love to dance and we watch
‘Dancing With The Stars’ on TV. I had always
marveled at how the lady
professionals could
execute all those fast and intricate steps wearing
four-inch spike heels. I have even greater respect
for them now.
Walking on my ankles in my two-inch
heels was reminiscent of my first experience on
ice skates. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
Our shopping concluded, I called Ox, told
him to meet at Maggie’s apartment with the
surveillance equipment and we headed home.
After lunch, Maggie suggested we start
getting my make-up on. She said that we might
run into some issues. I wondered what she meant
by that.
We sat at her kitchen table and she spread
her whole array of jars and tubes and brushes.
“When did you shave last?
“This morning.”
“Go do it again. I can only cover up just so
much.”
I shaved and when I returned she had made
her selections.
“OK, foundation goes on first.” And she
started smearing this light-brown pasty cream all
over my face.
“Now the eyebrows.” And she started
drawing on my forehead with some kind of grease
pencil.
“Hold really still or I’ll poke your eye out.”
and she outlined my eyelids with a little pencil
thing.
“Now don’t blink.” And she came at me
with some kind of pliers that she clamped on my
eyelashes.
“Now for the lip-liner and lipstick.” She
coated my mouth with ‘cinnamon rose’.
It occurred to me that it was much more
fun getting the lipstick off her mouth.
“Now for a little blush to give you some
color and a pat of powder so you don’t shine.”
Oh good. I really didn’t want to shine.
She stood back to admire her handiwork.
“I’m afraid that’s as good as it’s going to
get.”
Just what every gal wants to hear.
I looked in the mirror and ‘YIKES’ I
looked like a cross between Ronald McDonald,
Howdy Doody and Raggedy Ann.
It’ll be better with your wig on,” she said.
I certainly hoped so.
Just then, a knock on the door.
Maggie opened the door and Ox strode in
with an armful of electronics.
He gave Maggie a hug, took a look at me,
and to his credit, pretended that nothing
was
different.
I noticed though, that he quickly turned
away and headed for the kitchen with his box. As
he went through the door, I know I heard him
snicker. I know he did.
He returned, composed, and with an air of
professionalism said, “I see you’re ready for our
evening out, Mrs. Williams.”
Maggie had witnessed the exchange and
finally could hold it no longer. She burst into an
uncontrollable fit of laughter that sent Ox over the
edge and the two of them collapsed on the couch.
As I watched their frivolity at my expense,
my first reaction was hurt. Then I felt a wave of
resentment. But as I was about to lash out in
protest, I saw myself in the mirror and I caved in
too.
If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.
**********************************
An excerpt from
Lady Justice and the Lost
Tapes
http://booksbybob.com/lady-justice-andthe-lost-tapes_307.html