Asbury Park Admonitions

“How long have you known me, Stan?” David Galway stared at his shoes, a long brownish spit-string of mucus balanced precariously on his lower lip, trying to influence gravity to release it. Sometimes chewing tobacco carried enough viscosity to hinder an efficient release from the safety of the cheek, even after fifty years of practice.

Stanley Brigham Young Bowers said nothing for a few seconds, legs crossed and arm extended along the back of the park bench, embracing nothing and no one, his gaze affixed in disapproval of his friend’s disgusting habit. “Judging from your present behavior, about thirty seconds past too long, I think.”

Both arms on his knees, David flicked his tongue into his cheek, producing the plug of tobacco, which he expelled with a hardy p-thwack. The itinerant chaw bounced one time on the pavement beneath the bench and found a new home directly atop Stanley Bowers’ white buck loafer—one half of the pair he’d purchased from Thom McAnn only two weeks previous, at an exorbitant price.

Neither man moved for a period of time that must have contained the materials of which eternity is constructed. Then, David adjusted his glasses on his nose before meeting his friend’s suddenly hostile stare.

“I… uh…” he stammered, pausing to assess Stanley’s expression, “I should… uh… probably wipe that off, shouldn’t I?” His finger now timidly pointed down at Stanley’s now-brown-and-white shoe.

A deep inhalation on Stanley’s part forced his head back and his chin up, but never did his eyes leave David’s. Exhaling, he crossed his hands in his lap and whispered, “Yea… that might be a good place to start.”

Extracting his red bandana kerchief from a jacket pocket, the elderly man leaned over, his arm extended toward Stanley’s shoe.

“Not with that, you jackass! For all I know, you just wiped your ass with it! Go get a Handi-Wipe or something, for Christ’s sake… a clean tissue, perhaps… anything but that… that snot-rag!”

David bristled perceptibly, extending both arms from his chest, elbows still tucked in at his sides and hands flailing in animation. “Oh, so now I need to carry a Walgreen’s in my coat, too, just in case I happen to hack a loogie on my friend’s shoe… you want I should fix you a hot dog, too, with lots of onions and relish? How about mustard? You want mustard, too, you fat fuck? Maybe I’ll pour a little of that on those ugly white abominations! It could only help…”

Once again, silence whipped both men into submission. Gestures of annoyance consumed the two as they busied themselves with posturing and re-posturing, every movement dedicated to convincing the other of his sang-froid aplomb.

Glancing at his watch, Stanley reached to his right and grabbed his cane. “Same time tomorrow?”

David nodded. “Yea, I guess. How else are we going to know if Anger Management is working?”

Standing up, Stanley pointed his cane at David. “Go fuck yourself.”

Extending his middle finger skyward, “Oh, yea? Well, this is for you,” and then pointing his still-extended middle finger in piston movements directly at Stanley, David shrieked, “and this is for your horse!”

Whistling as he walked away, Stanley didn’t seem to notice.

Bob Church © 4/21/07