Sunday Scribblings #130: Wedding
Raven-haired, seven-acre Sacajawea filled the capacious bed of Flat Top Jimmy’s red pick up truck. Five o’clock Friday rush hour traffic in Tres Leches, the communion stakes are on, evening masses be damned. Calvin, annunciated via the commodious blessings of Air Quality Action Day #7 and three Tecates since the 410 ramp, throws the question Indian Maiden-way, without singeing his eyebrows and reckons that sign a good ‘un.
Sac, not yet sure she wants to have heard what flamed her way: “If honeydew’ll get it, honey,” she says, “That’ll do. You ain’t misbehavin’, is you?”
“I’ll have the bulldog now,” says driving Jimmy, and yes, up from the coronation bed rises a big fat bully, all white knuckle-fur and slurry speech—Churchill on a slaphappy drool. Jimmy’s lard-happy himself in jowly bliss, thinking, indeed, two can be as one.
What you’re missing, dear reader, because he hasn’t yet told you, is that that Texas Ag-exemption’s worth of raven-tressed subdivided ranch land in the back of the matrimonial Dodge Ram appears to be, albeit without full documentary proof, indubitably buck naked. This sits amusingly in a fuzzy head that for the past week, between recurring bouts of inconsequential musing and pre- and post-consequential bouts of influenza, has seen and felt very little to amuse its fuzzyheadedness, short of the life and times of Fats Waller in Passaic.
I’m sorry: I know you want more. I can give you the coordinates of Fredericksburg Road and the 410 access, all the Humpty Dumpty flair of rose-petaled highway carousel, the blonde woman at roadside who could not have worked for food had the invitation been offered, the dingbat gerrymandering mouth of Sean Hannity caught in a nano-second of unscripted tomfoolery, this on my way down the dial to David Gates’ wanting to make it with you, when out of the clear blues of the clear blue there sits Sacajawea in a suit worthy of this her birthday, even if it isn’t.
You see, the truth of the matter is, I lost her. Missed the promenade down San Pedro, Homecoming Dance mums tossed at the Park and Ride, $3.55 gas bought at the corner of Basse, hot glazed donuts lamented in the ruins of the old A-frame just down from the equally dead and gone Olmos Theater. Did the 5:25 Amtrak cruise over as they passed under, did America’s stepdad verify the skyclad nuptials in our midst, and was “I do” sufficient unto the day for a woman who’d come back from the Snake to tell the tale, who’d survived the insufferable pedantry and piss-poor table manners of Toussaint Charbonneau, all to the tune of several more lines of entry?
Brothers and sisters, let us so pray.
Labels: wizzles of oz