Aha, got your attention! Y’all thought I was gonna talk about our society or our government or our relationships. Dang it now, if ya knew me better then ya oughta know that Gabby don’t always go deep with his thoughts. No, I’m fixin to tell you about my broken leg a couple months ago.
Ain’t no point in telling how I broke it, but I’ll tell ya anyway. Just let me give y’all a bit of Gabby advice. Do not climb a ladder at midnight to cut off a tree branch on state park property that’s been blocking your view of the river. Do not lean your ladder on the part of the tree branch that is gonna fall off when the cutting is done. ‘Nuff said ? When my body hit the concrete bridge pier and then rolled into the river I at least had the presence of mind to keep the chain saw dry. Folks don’t call me amazing Gabby fer no reason atall.
Tweren’t no fun hobbling around the house on one leg. Getting dressed, cooking my meals, doing the outside chores took hours longer than they should of. And any of you guys ever use the toilet standing on one leg trying to balance yourself? NosirreeBob, it was not a cake walk at my house. I spent most of the day in a bath robe, ate them frozen microwave dinners, and read all four “Lone Dove” novels cover to cover three times.
YessirreeBob, and I spent a lot of time watching baseball on TV. One afternoon, the bottom of the ninth, tie game, Rays had their power slugger at bat and the doorbell rang. Aw hell, don’t they know I’m watching a baseball game. I hop to the door in my bathrobe, try to keep stuff from popping out that should stay hid and open the door to the next door neighbor lady, Mrs. Fatass. She calls herself Mrs. FaTass, Margaret, if you like, with emphasis on the last syllable, but we all knew she was one of them there uppity white women with more ego than class. Also, we knew a grade school chum of hers. Yep she were definitely a Fatass and not a FaTass.
“Haven’t seen you outside lately, are you alright?” she says looking at my hairy legs and greasy hair and whatever else that might be where it ain’t supposed to be.
Pointing to my cast, I say, “Well, except for a broken leg, I’m just fine.”
Then squeezing her way through my front door she waddle wooshes past me rubbing her size 96 eee bra against my forearm surveying the mess called handicapped-bachelor housekeeping and plops her large presence onto my sofa.
“Here, I brought you some reading material,” handing me what turned out to be tracts from her church.
Then from her purse (why would she be carrying a purse just to visit next door you might ask. I don’t know, ask the fella writing this piece) she pulls out a Bible, opens it and starts reading a verse.
“You broke your leg for a reason, the good book says for all things there’s a season and a reason.”
Yeah, does the good book say anything about minding your own business?
“Do you know the people across the street, the Abads? They are Muslim. I feel so sorry for them that they don’t know the only true God and Jesus Christ. Eternity in hell.”
“They’re going to spend eternity in hell’s fire under unspeakable damnation.”
Now. folks, stay with me here. In the morning on the day before the fat lady’s visit, Mrs. Abad from across the street brought over for me a bowl of steamy, delicious, curry meat. It was even better than Granny’s stew and there was enough for several meals. I don’t understand why a beautiful woman like her keeps her head covered, and frankly, it don’t matter. Later that afternoon, her young boy wheeled the push mower across the street and cut my yard which could have passed for a hayfield. That evening, Mr. Abad showed up at my front door with a pot of tea and an offer to drive me to my doctors’ appointments. No religious tracts in my face, no talk about their God, no gossip about the neighbors. ‘Nuff said?
So, there you have it folks. My broken leg story. Oh yeah, as for Mrs. Fatass, the thumper from next door, I helped her to waddle woosh out my front door, shoved her tracts into her bag along with her good book, and cheerfully warbled in her ear, “Know what sweetheart? I’d rather spend eternity in hell with neighbors like the Abads than another minute with your verse-spitting, religious hypocrisy sitting on my sofa.”
I think I may have offended her. Forgive me Lord fer being so trashy. Stop by and visit, we’ll have some of Mrs. Abad’s curry chicken.