Secrets of Life According to Patsy

Times come and go (as times are wont to do) and not so long ago, after an extravagant disbursement spent in the quest of insobriety and dalliance, there I sat—once again perched precariously upon the outer branches of yet another unfulfilling escapade; not drunk enough to pass out and blissfully forget my problems, but too messed up to look forward to being happy. Plus, I remembered that morning would bring another ripping hangover. All my friends had run out of money or patience and gone home to mama, the barroom lights had come up and Lester was sweeping the muck and swill off the floors; even two-toothed Marsha, having decided that Mr. Right wasn’t going to show up again tonight, called her husband to come pick her up.

Yet, there I sat. Actually, ‘sprawled’ would more correctly describe my posture. Both legs straddled the booth seat across from me and I half-sat, half-reclined with my back against the wall, one arm rested across the top of the booth and the other twirled the glass with three sips of honey-colored grog remaining in the bottom. The brew’s characteristic carbon dioxide bubbles had long since stopped rising and it was roughly room temperature, making it nearly inconsumable… emphasis being placed on ‘nearly’. Silently, I pondered whether or not to drink it. I didn’t want it, I knew it’d taste like crap, but I’d paid for it and therefore assumed an obligation to Saint Brigid, the Irish patron of beer. To drink or not to drink… that is the indigestion. Lifting my glass in resignation, I tossed my head back and poured the beer/backwash mixture down my throat, simultaneously casting caution to the wind and willing my gag reflex to subside. I don’t know what battery acid tastes like, but I’m sure it’d resemble the liquid now rushing towards my stomach, stopping only long enough upon my palate to bring my taste buds into full revolt.

Why can’t I forget you and start my dreams anew, instead of having sweet dreams of y— Lester unplugged the jukebox and Patsy Cline became a lingering memory. On one level I knew he had to close up, but on another, far closer level, I wanted to hit him with a tire iron. Why couldn’t he allow her to finish? It’s not like he has a life… he lives in a camper behind the bar, for Christ’s sake! If I were governor, I’d enact legislation that would make it a Class Two felony to cause any Patsy Cline song to be halted before its intended conclusion. For that matter, why not have her song Crazy become the official Missouri State Song?

“Well, thank you, Lester! I guess the thirty-four seconds it would take to let the song finish was just more than you could take, huh, buddy? You wouldn’t want to be late to the 2:16 pop-up camper Porn Whack-a-Thon, would you?”

“Fuck you, punk! Get out… now!” He growled, the broom held menacingly as though it was a Louisville Slugger and he might do his best Barry Bonds imitation upon my head. Lester snarled at me, brandishing his best wino-turned-bartender-because-it’s-cheaper-for-the-owner-to-make-him-work-off-his-bar tab-than-it-is-to-kick-him-out-for-the-next-thirty-days scowl and exercising the only form of authority he’d possessed in the last ten years.

“Jesus, easy on the vitriol, Lester, you know that if you smack me I’m going to get up and flush you head-first down the shitter, so why do you stress yourself out like that? Lighten up, dude, you’ll live longer.”

Lester didn’t have any teeth, but his jaws clenched unconsciously, chewing some non-existent piece of meat, as he confronted me. As quickly as it came, his raged subsided, for reasons unapparent. I doubt he really thought he was about to suffer a throne-dunking—my threats, more often than not, were just that, empty threats— and he once again resumed his duty, that of mucking the stalls. Stretching my arms and neck in preparation for my own departure, I watched him disappear into the kitchen.



“Good choice, Les…” I muttered, my voice only slightly above a whisper. “I’m sure your mama is very proud.”

“You really should be nicer to him, you know.”

The voice startled me, but I recognized the Southern twang, I’d heard it before. Looking up, I noticed across from me sat a smiling dark-haired beauty with the reddest lips I’d ever seen. Her short, soft-curled hairstyle screamed ’60s and two large ruby buttons covered the majority of her earlobes. I tried to re-focus, but her eyes held me hostage; deep-set and dark, they glimmered beneath extravagant painted-on eyebrows, the glamour signature of a by-gone era. This was no ordinary woman. Every detail of her appearance declared her theatrical demeanor and elegance. I’d seen her before but couldn’t put a name to the face.

“Who are you?” I stammered. Pure genius. Never in the history of mankind has anyone uttered anything even remotely so suave, appealing and erudite. Not only does liquor make me more intelligent, it also, on command, immediately renders me charming and glib.

“Well, Sugar, I’m whoever you want me to be.” Now, she batted her eyes alluringly and smiled, showing just a hint of teeth. “Do you like me?”

“Like you? Hell, yes, I like you. You’re… different, I guess.” Again, my inner genius presented itself.

My inane comment didn’t seem to upset her. A shrug of her shoulders transformed her into a blushing 5-year-old, a nervous giggler responding to a request from an admiring stranger.

“I’m glad. Could we go somewhere else? You spend an awful lot of time here.” A fingertip sensuously played with a lock of hair as her beguiling eyes implored me.

The hypnotic upshot of her words, rather than bringing me to action, seemed to have the opposite effect. My legs seemed mired in clay and I couldn’t have moved if I tried.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look exactly like Patsy Cline? Er, while she was still alive, I mean… no offense meant.”

“No offense taken. What a sweet thing to say… the part about looking like Patsy Cline, I mean. I dress—or undress for that matter—just for you.”

To say I was taken aback by that comment would contain no more understatement than the Pope being describe as a nice Catholic man. I readily admit to being simple— I am neither inventor nor philosopher; DaVinci, Shakespeare, Freud, Monet, Aristotle and even the Earl of Sandwich all rest snugly in their little earth beds, secure in the knowledge that I will never challenge their legacy in the human history of great thinkers. Befuddled as I became, I needed to press on. “You mean to say that if I asked you to drop your laundry, please forgive the vulgarity, right here, right now, you’d actually do it?”

“Of course I would. I’d do anything you asked of me.”

Not a moment’s hesitation. Suddenly I realized that Lester hadn’t paid any attention to her whatsoever, preferring instead to continue his glass-washing chores behind the bar. Lester never missed an opportunity to leer at a pretty girl. Something was definitely amiss.

“Well, don’t get me wrong, I’m happy that you’re here with me and I’m absolutely thrilled that you’re about to become my sex slave, but how did you get here? I didn’t see you walk in… and neither did Lester.”

“I came in when you did.”

“You came in when I did, huh?”

“Absolutely.”

“You’ve been here all night?”

“That’s right.”

“Right here… sitting in this booth. Right?”

“There can be no doubt about it. You’ve mastered the concept of my presence.” She folded her hands in front of her on the table, sitting up a bit straighter, the smile replaced with a non-committal expression, as well. Gone, also, was the sexy wench of my dreams. A stark transformation removed her lipstick, grayed her hair, added fifty pounds to her frame and my fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Larrick, sat across the table from me. Reaching into the bag sitting on the seat beside her, she produced a theme paper and laid it on the table. In the scrawling cursive of an uncoordinated ten-year-old, I saw:

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bob Church
October 27, 1957


At least you handed it in this time. D+

The History of Spam

I think Spam is good. It tastes sorta like meat, but without bones and comes in a can. My mother says if I eat it and quit swearing, I can go outside and play ball with my friends.

People have been eating Spam for a long time, I think, but not for Thanksgiving. At least, not until Grandma goes home.

By Bob Church

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------



For one of the few times in a long and storied existence, words failed me. Momentarily, mysterious forces of time and space grappled inside my mind, inflicting punches to my ego and strategically placing satchel charges of plastic explosive upon my motor neurons, threatening to detonate them at the sound of the wrong word.

“Are you a ghost?”

No hesitation whatsoever preceded her answer. “Only if you are,” she pontificated, pissing me off mightily.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I bellowed. Then, realizing that I was shouting, I recoiled. Lester didn’t look up, apparently oblivious to my ravings at this point. A quick glance across the table surprised me once more, as the beauty had returned.

“Do you intend to keep doing this?” I whispered, “The ‘changing’, I mean… because if you do, we need to go somewhere else. Poor Lester’s heart may not be able to handle it.”

“Oh, I assure you, any changes that occur are a product of your actions, not mine.” Again, the smile re-emerged. “But, I wouldn’t worry too much about Lester, he can’t really see me. Here, I’ll show you.” Before I could react, she stood and lifted her sweater over her head with both arms, turning her body towards Lester and allowing her perky breasts to spring free from her brassiere.

“Yoo hoo… Lester! Look over here, big boy! It’s Patsy Cline, in the flesh, for your viewing pleasure!” Placing a hand underneath each breast, she rubbed them lasciviously, taking time to suggestively pinch the nipples and emit low-pitched moans and squeals. Still, Lester continued doing the dishes, oblivious to her presence.

As quickly as the performance started, it stopped. She sat back down in the seat, peered at me with an expression that I can only describe as piteous. “See? He can’t see me. It’s just you and me, pal.”

“Okay, but if you aren’t really Patsy Cline, and I know you aren’t because Patsy assumed room temperature over forty years ago, and if you aren’t a ghost, who—or what—are you? And why, of all the creatures on God’s green earth, did you choose me to show your tits to?”

Throwing her hands up in the air, exasperation as fresh on her face as drops of juice on the rind of a fresh-cut orange, she stood and shouted, “Wake up! You’re not fifteen anymore, for Christ’s sake! Do you think you can find anything even remotely close to your dreams sitting in this barroom? Would you really rather spend three o’clock in the morning in Lester’s company while he cleans puke off the walls than snuggling with some cute little woman who sees what a loser you are but is willing to sleep with you in spite of it?” Folding her arms in front of her, the age-old sign that a woman’s pissed and no longer willing to remain silent, she sidled out of the booth and stopped at the end of the table. Craning her neck towards me she paused and closed her eyes, as if suddenly recalling a painful experience.

“I’ve known you for a very long time,” she said. “You can be hopelessly dim, bewilderedly obtuse, and disgustingly contrary sometimes, but in spite of it all, when I least expect it, you surprise me with sweetness of which I didn’t think you capable. Just when I think you’re impossible, you unexpectedly wander into situations that expose your heart to unspeakable peril without once stopping to think of the consequences. I’m still not sure whether you’re hopeless romantic, itinerant dream salesman, two-night sideshow act or Albert Schweitzer. Honestly, sometimes I question whether you even know who Albert Schweitzer is, for that matter, but I digress.”

Placing the strap of her purse over her arm, she snapped it open and reached inside. After rummaging about a bit, she picked a set of keys from the bag and once again fixed her eyes upon mine. “In case you’re too drunk to figure out who I am by now, you may want to consider following me. When that door swings open and I walk out, if you aren’t close behind I can no longer be responsible for the consequences. Just remember, no life lasts forever.” With that, she pushed open the back door to the Red Dog Saloon and walked out.

I sat in place for a few seconds, watching the hydraulic closer hiss, keeping the door from slamming shut. Then, without thinking further, I bolted towards it, catching it just before it closed. In the darkness, the image of my Explorer sitting next to the back patio curb with the engine running startled me. Quickly, I walked to the passenger side door and opened it. There, seated behind the steering wheel, sat my roommate, Sue.

“Need a lift, sailor?” her soft, lilting voice asked. As I stepped in, I inadvertently looked into the back seat and saw Ms. Patsy Cline smiling back at me. As we pulled away, in the background I heard I fall to pieces, every time I hear your name and I understood. To this day, I don’t know whether or not the CD player was on.

Bob Church©12/4/06