Saturday. Hmmm. As saturdays go, this was the saturday-est. Of course, that doesn’t mean to say that today isn’t saturday, because it isn’t. Are you tracking what I’m saying? No, you’re not listening at all. In fact, I would have to say that you are a lot like my Uncle Edolphus Pestimeir the XIV, the XV, and the XVI. He was an unusual man, but we forgave him after his tragic death ended his illustrious life in 1947. That was fourteen years before I was born and twelve years after my dog, Facelift, ran into a truck and rearranged his molecules.

Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Saturday. I have never liked saturday. They last far too long and as soon as they are finished they slide you downwards at a crazy tilt right into the four or five worst days of the month…. Mondays. My Uncle Edolphus Pestimeir the III, the IV, and the V, earlier mentioned in a paragraph you haven’t read, was cursed on a Monday. Blue Monday, he called it. That was the day he married my Aunt Ana Stalinagravis. She was not a joyous wife. She was married to my uncle for his money and found out after they were married that he didn’t have any. Money, that is. Ana Stalinagravis came from a remote part of Kenya where they raise wild chickens that grow three legs when they are precisely conceived on a saturday.

Which, of course, brings me back to my original subject — Saturday. Are you listening, yet? Good. Now. About saturday. It was unbelievable! My girlfriend, Bertina Oddfellows Flythehellouttahere, was on an airplane. She was on a 747 that had a tendency to lean toward the left as it reached high speeds. When a gas tank in Texas blew up, decimating the entire state and throwing mapmakers into a rewrite scramble, the waves of energy, heat and flames raced upward high into the blessed blue sky whereupon the 747, with a tendency to lean to the left, remember, leaned left, unwittingly, cockeyed straight into the inferno. The 747, with my erstwhile girlfriend was dragged downward right into the midst of a grand birthday party going on in Bugtussle, Oklahoma.

Bugtussle is not a very large town, despite its attractive name, and all 475 of its residents were attending the party for Billy Bob Barty Joe Nasterwick; a rather snotty little brat, when you come to think of what he did to sweet LuAnn Pedililtwit-Smythe last Christmas eve at the annual AnaphalaBaptist Church’s (this is the south branch of that particular denomination) Whoop Em Up and Praise the Lord Jesus Mary & Joseph’s Pot Luck Supper…. when my soon to be fricaseed Bertina’s plane toppled down amongst them. That sent another scramble alarm to all the world’s mapmakers, because now, Bugtussle was now gone, too. Hmmm. I have digressed a little, I think. Yes, I was talking about saturday. It was the saturday-est, but not because of the other things I just mentioned. You see, while all this stuff was going on, I decided to take myself down to Ostermeyers Drug Store for an ice cream soda and was told that the machine had broken down.

I tell ya, I was sorely disappointed. Greatly, even. I could have taken any news in the world, but not that. No how. No way. So, I don’t like saturdays.

How about you?

Sometime in 1992

At six o’clock this afternoon, my foot was twisted. Although it is only 12:44pm, I know it has already happened, because it’s very similar to an occurence that happened to occur to H. G. Wells at the turn of the century. Unfortunately, his is a more intriguing story than mine is. However, it went like this, and please, while I am relating this, don’t eat those berries. They give me a rash. Thank you.

There will be a bird, the same one that will fly into a truck five years from now, who will be chirping in the tree outside. I’m allergic to that ree. But, only when roses are in bloom. Perhaps that is the reason for the kleenex up my nose. No matter. The truck will be going 80 miles per hour when the bird hits it. Of course, the only thing the driver will be aware of is the flashing red light upon the state troopers car. The state trooper is a family man with no kids and a wife who left him 14 years ago. He is not in a good mood.

So while the bird is singing, I fall out the window when I sneeze. Not an everyday habit of mine, I assure you, but there is a tendency for that sort of thing to happen when you are leaning out the window appreciating the spectacular color of the pair of shorts the English professor is wearing. Ever since he went to Egypt last year to see the pyramid of Khufu, he’s thought quite a lot of himself, except when he’s admiring himself in the store windows. Khufu was an egomaniac who didn’t wear shorts, but wore a skirt. But, what does he have to do with this story anyway? Hmm? Ahh, but I digress as I am falling out the window. I seem to have lost my kleenex, but that doesn’t strike me as too important since the sidewalk is about to strike me. Much in the same manner as that bird will be struck by the truck, five years from now, you recall.

So, there I am faced with a horrible dilemma and wondering who I will be blaming it upon. It’s something I can think at leisure upon now, since it is not yet six o’clock, finding someone to blame, that is.

I think it’s Ken’s fault. After all, he ate those damn berries!

January, 1991

Hello? Is anybody in there? I say, can you hear me? Ah. Good. I thought I would have to shout myself to death out here. Do you mind if I come on in? Thank you so much. Oh my… what a lovely dinner you have set before you! Would you mind? Good. I thought not. Mmmmmm ah! This is deeee-licious! Have you tried the sauce, yet? Marvelous. Truly a credit to your talented cook.

Ah. Who am I? Dear me, I am the pushy one, aren’t I? Come, come, do sit down and I shall attempt to explain myself. Go on, now, fill up your plate and dig in. I don’t want you to starve on my account. Here, take some of these aromatic garlic and red-skin potatoes. That’s it.

Now, my name. Hmmm, this fruit is fabulous! Peaches at the peak of ripeness, no doubt. I am, oh! Do have some of the sauce on that. As I said…. yes, yes, of course. Back to the subject at hand. Me. I am Saroyan Flowerby. What? Never heard of me, have you? Well, that is a pity. Indeed. I am certain most of the free world has head of Saroyan Flowerby. Unless that is just my ego speaking out of hand, once more. It usually does that when I am not looking.

Please, help yourself to the rest of the fruit dish while I try those tempting green beans. Grown in your own greenhouse, no doubt? Mmmm, and sauteed with rich butter and… is that clover honey? It must be! My culinary expertise always has a way of overwhelming me. But, I suppose you have never encountered such a problem, have you? Not with this wonderful cook to prepare such dishes for you, what does it matter behind the preparation when you can indulge in the result, eh?

Oh, yes. Back to me, again. My, I feel as though I am dominating this entire conversation. REally, Mr. … oh my! I’ve just caught myself in another faux pas. Mistake, you see. I never got your name. So, do tell, kind sir, mine host of this gracious hall, what is your revered name?

Sean O’Reilly. Strong Irish name, that is. Are you fond of the potatoes? I adore them, but my gastronomic tendencies do not allow for the savoring of such a noble root. Gives me indigestion, they do, if I can be permitted that indelicacy. Terribly embarassing, wouldn’t you say? You don’t? Ah well, a matter of separate opinions doth divide the misfortunate. I believe I just made that up. Quite an insperation you are, Mr. O’Reilly.

Oh dear. Are we back to that old question, again? Who am I? Who are any of u s, you should ask, sir. When the wind blows us to points thither and yon, how much have we changed? Are we no longer the person we were when we woke at the ungodly hour of 5:30am? What events brought us to this house, to this very dinner table where before us lies a feast worthy of the gods? What movements in the spheres have caused us to be who and what we are in this very fragile point in Time? You tell me, Mr. O’Reilly!! What can I say to such a question? Hmmmm? What would you be able to answer if you were asked the same? Indeed, Mr. O’Reilly you would find yourself in the same place I find myself. With a very full stomach, and the great need to take a walk and have a smoke.

I shall bid you adieu, that’s a fond farewell, good sir. Should I have the great fortune to pass your way again, I would be most happy to partake in another one of your grand feasts and discuss further with you, the meaning of Life. Farewell, Mr. O’Reilly. Oh! And to you as well, Mrs. O’Reilly! You and I shall chat another time. Pity we missed each other. Goodnight!

“Sean…?”

“Mary, I… uhm…”

March, 1991