Plastic Wrap,
Dishwashers and other irritants…

Plastic wrap is one of those inventions that didn’t quite
make it all the way to where it claims to have made it. Yes, on the TV you will
see overpaid, starved models whip that stuff off the roll and cover just about
anything: A bowl of leftovers, a piece of cake or grandpa sleeping in a chair. In
Fried Green Tomatoes what’s-her-name covered herself in it and answered the
door. Heck, you see movies where the bad guys run it over the victim’s mouth and
that’s it for them. In real life none of that is going to work, I know, I have
tried most of it, except grandpa and the movie stuff, and the wife stuff. Okay,
I have only tried the food applications, and none of them worked.

I have stood for ten minutes waiting to get enough off the
roll in one piece to cover that piece of cake only to have it come undone and
fall to the floor on the way to the fridge. And it was work to get it of the
roll. The serrated edge? Junk doesn’t work at all. It comes off torn, at an
angle, the tube lifts out of the box, and you find yourself holding the plastic
wrap roll and nothing else. I hate the stuff. Somebody needs to fix it or send
it to the Chinese.

Dishwashers belong in that same group. A product that falls
short of the hype and promises. Every day I find myself washing breakfast/lunch
and dinner dishes, rinsing them and then putting them in the dishwasher. What?
Do I really do that? Yes I do and in fact you are told to pre-wash the dishes
and depending on what that means to you, you might as well have a towel so you
can then dry them and put them away instead of putting them in the dishwasher
to essentially let them get sprayed with hot water and soap so they can then go
through a sixteen hour wash cycle (I say that because I don’t care when I
started the damn dishwasher, it is on and burning me whenever I am in the
shower)then they can sit overnight and dry, ha ha ha. In the morning you take
them out and rewash the ones you didn’t prewash well enough when you put them
in, only now that stuff is heated on. Or you could wait until you have company
and let them spot the bad ones for you.

Electric cars are not where they should be. They are
supposed to go in the garage, plug in to charge up, and drive a long time.
Instead, they last a few hundred miles. If they get hit hard enough, they become
an instant biohazard or worse, you
do. And when they run out of juice you are not getting some gas and a jump to
get you going again. Short out the batteries and you have a steel framed car
that will fry you in a few seconds.

Irritants:

Items on eBay marked: “I really don’t know if the item
works so I’m selling it as is” Ha, let me translate that. It should read:  “I looked at the item and realized it was
junk, so I said to my wife/husband, Honey? Let’s try to sell this on
eBay.”

People who look at guitars and say, “What’s that thingy
do?”

People who look at computers and say, “What’s that
thingy do?”

Tinfoil: For some reason no matter how often, I have reached
into the oven and burned myself on tinfoil I immediately convince myself it
didn’t happen. That must be the case because every time I am cooking something
with foil I reach in there and grab it like it just has to be cool and then I
burn the crap out of myself.

That is my Sunday, hope your Sunday is better, 🙂 I will leave you with a free short story. A western, unusual for me to write a short story western, yet I just finished a novel length western which needs editing before it publishes, so maybe it isn’t so unusual after all…

From the short story collection:

ALABAMA
ISLAND

by
W. G. Sweet 2018 all rights reserved foreign and domestic.

 

LEGAL

This
is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents depicted are
products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual living persons
places, situations or events is purely coincidental.

Portions
of this novel are Copyright © 2010 – 2015 Dell Sweet. No part of this book may
be reproduced by any means, electronic, print, scanner or any other means and
or distributed without the author’s permission.

Permission
is granted to use short sections of text in reviews or critiques in standard or
electronic print.

A DRESS FOR JANEY

I
rode slowly watching the trail side. There wasn’t much to see in the moonlight,
but enough to follow if you knew where to look, and I did.

The
thing was, this fella was not no kind of careful anyways. And he was not no
horse man neither.

I
rubbed my geldings rump, patted a time, and silently promised him a little
extra rest time once we caught up to this fool sometime later in the night.

Mister
Johnson was a good horse. More used to plow than saddle, but circumstances
dictate those positions more’n I do. And this man I was trackin’ had dictated
tonight’s circumstances clear and straight.

I
turned Mister Johnson down a short chute of a canyon, keeping him to the side
so as not to mark the trail, and to keep his iron shoes from ringing out on the
stone. We come to a little stream that cut the canyon and I stopped, rolled
myself a smoke. I sat, hand cupped and smoked. Listening to the surrounding
night.

If
this was a smart fella, no way would I have lit no smoke. But this was no smart
man at all. This, from what I could see, was a desperate man. Desperate or
dumb. Or, possibly, both. I’d know for sure before dawn.

I
finished the smoke, flipped it into the crik and went on my way again,
following the trail of my own other horse, Mizz Johnson.

I
had, had her as long as I had, had Mister Johnson. Truth be told I thought
Mister Johnson might be even more pissed off about the situation that I was. He
just didn’t know how to use a rope, if so I’m sure he’d a been out for a
hangin’ too.

I
worked my way sideways down a gully, leaving the actual trail behind me where
it out and did a loop back onto itself. The direction was clear enough, and he
was far enough ahead that I wouldn’t come up on him, and the shortcut would
save me time considerable.

I
had me a farm, a good woman and two boys old enough to help a little already. A
girl child who made me feel like crying ever time I looked at her. I don’t
figure how that is: That a girl child can do that, ‘cept I can see she will have
to live her life, and it’s a hard one, and I wisht better than what I got to
give her.

Men
is men. The boys will grow up rough and tumble. That’s boys. That’s boys comin’
to be a man. But a girl child, seems to me, looks out at the world all pretty
and hope, and then the world sort of breaks her down. Sometimes fast, sometimes
slow.

I’d
seen that truth in the eyes of a whore down in Dodge several years back. A
young pretty whore, but resigned to be a whore. I’d paid my dollar and stayed
for a little conversation as it was a slow night. I don’t never want to see
that look in my Melissa’s eyes. But I can’t see that my Janey would ever let
her go down that path. We learn from our mistakes, we do: If we don’t we don’t
last long in this world.

I
made the trail and walked Mister Johnson on the up-slope at a steady pace. He
didn’t need much help or pointin’: I figured he could smell ol’ Mizz Johnson at
that point, and he was, as I said, a might upset himself.

I
was two days out from home. Me out from home meant that Janey had to do it all
with no help from no man. Plow what she could with that goddamn, son-of-a-bitch
mule we had. Be lucky if it didn’t kick her bad is what I’d be.

This
life don’t slow down for no horse thief. The kids got to be fed. The chicks fed
too. The cows milked. The other things a woman’s got to do. Cook, and clean,
what all. But she’s got to do all the things a man’s got to do as well. All
piled in there. No break at all. That was this life out here, how it had to be.
How it was.

I
caught the smell of fire and meat roastin’ on the air. Fresh, green wood. Not
much of a woodsman either, I opinioned. But, considering the horsemanship, the
theft itself and all of the rest of it, I’d say I was not too surprised. I
stopped, rolled another smoke, kept it cupped to hide the flame, didn’t worry
about the odor even though I was close now. The wind was at me after all, and
his own, smokey fire would hide all other smells if the wind did shift. Chances
were he had no idea of smells on the wind anyways.

I
let my eyes travel the sky, lookin’ and I spotted a few stray sparks as they
rose into the night sky not far away. All kinds of dumb. But I bet he
considered himself some sort of woodsman just because he could light that fire.

Some
figure if they can build a fire they’s a woodsman. I laugh at that. I have
slept in snow banks and stayed warm. I tracked snowshoes in dead winter and got
them. I have been lived in the wild with just a knife for two months while I
was working out of the back country and my first horse dropped a leg in a
chuck-hole and I had to shoot him.

I
was green then. Used up one of my last four bullets on the horse, when I
could’a used the knife and saved that bullet. Packed some out with me, dried
over the fire, and et better those two months. I was young, dumb and life to
come. And for me I was goddamn lucky to have lived through it that time. But,
as I done said the one time, you learn or you die. Life, it don’t forgive a lot
out here.

I
finished the smoke, crushed it out between my thumb and forefinger, then angled
Mister Johnson down toward the fire I’d seen. I could be, maybe, cocky and ride
right up on him, but I don’t like to misjudge. I tied Mister Johnson to a tree
to keep him out of it in case there was gun-play, which I intended there might
be. I’d just have to hope there were none that got Mister Johnson. But he’d
fare better hidden away. A man will always try in shoot a man’s horse at first
sight if he can.

I
walked the last hundred or so yards into his camp. My old sprung boots was so
mushy and soft they was like walkin’ in Indian mocs anyhow. He never heard me
comin’.

He
had a chuck spitted over the fire, and probably ever cat, wolf, bear and wild
dog for two miles around was sniffing on the air. He was stupid alright. I’d
seen some green eyes, and two sets of red eyes as I had made my way into his
camp.

He
sat before the fire. A fat man: I’d knowed that from the depth of the hoof
print though. And a stupid man just as I had guessed, as he had allowed me to
walk right up to him, too busy tryin’ to twist the cap off’n a store bought
bottle of whiskey he’d got from somewhere.

I
decided on the spot to save the bullet: Put my gun away and pulled the rope
that I had bought with me free from my shoulder. If a man ever works with
cattle, branding, he don’t forget how to rope. And, as a younger man, I done my
share of that. I had him in on one toss, and cinched it tight as I walked up on
him face to face like.

“Hey,”
he says, but me, I go about my business. I got me a limb picked out. We wrestle
a little while I drag him to the limb, shift that rope quick like to his neck,
and haul him up. He don’t say nothin’ after ‘Hey’, he tries to though.

Folks
think hanging a man is easy. And, it can at times be easy, but this wasn’t no
easy time: This was one a them hard times. A fat man, a thick neck, and me
being plain tired out. He kicked and thrashed for all of ten minutes before he
slowed. Me hanging on the end of that rope to keep him stretched, but I could
not get him to swinging. And then, me being tired as I was, I looped that rope
around Mizz Johnson’s saddle horn, the dumb bastard didn’t know enough to take
a saddle off’n a horse, and walked her a bit to get him swinging free. Goddamn
if he didn’t kick some more at that. I waited ten more minutes, ticked ’em off
on my Elgin. I seen men come back if they neck ain’t broke, and I was sure it
was not.

I
let him down after that time, rope don’t come cheap to me, and left him laying
there for the coyotes, wolves, bear and cats the damn fool had called down. Fat
man might not be their favorite, but when times is tough it will do I’d bet.

I
gathered up Mizz Johnson, went back and got Mister Johnson. They was happy to
see each other. Blowing and touching noses to necks.

The
fat man had two pair a saddle bags. The first had a food store, no surprise
there, except why he’d been about to eat chuck when he had bacon. The second
was a surprise: Gold, and not a little. I will tell you it was enough to sit me
right down there by the fire to look it over.

I
can count, but there’s a limit. What I knowed, I did, and then I had reached
the limit and there was a long ways to go yet. A very long ways. And the
trouble was I did not know for absolute what each piece was worth. Coin,
stamped, but I could not read none. I could only say there was five times
of  counting to one hundred and a way to
go after that.

Janey
could read and write too. And she could cypher figures a sight farther than I
could when it come to that. Whoring had taught her that. No whore could afford
to get cheated.

I
looked at it there in the moonlight for a piece, then put it all back in the
saddlebags except a few pieces I kept for my pocket. Janey could count it;
whatever it was we were a huge sight better off than we had been. It almost
made me want to thank the fat man. I didn’t though. He stole my horse and he
got what a horse thief is supposed to get.

I
tied Mizz Johnson to the saddle horn of old Mister Johnson’s saddle by a
longish lead and we rode out of there. I did put that fire out before we left.
I left the chuck where it was, dug me out a piece of jerky my own Janey had
made. I chewed thoughtful, thinking about the money as I rode. I was gonna stop
at Abilene, which was on the way, and buy Janey a dress. She’d always had such
pretty dresses when I’d met her, but times being as they was there weren’t no
money for pretty dresses.

I
smiled to myself thinkin’ about Janey’s eyes when she saw a new dress or two
and then a saddlebag full a gold pieces. It made me feel good inside. I looked
up at the moon, sent a prayer to God above up there somewhere, turned Mister
Johnson for the next ridge and headed towards Abilene.

Like the story? Check out my short story collection Alabama Island on Apple! Alabama Island by W. G. Sweet (ebook) – Apple Books 

https://books.apple.com/us/book/alabama-island/id1366776806