Ask Nothing.
The Best Antique I Ever Found
And
How I Found it.
By
A. Picker
Chapter Six.
I
had to decide what I should “do” now?
Ha. I already knew what I’s
was a gonna do back while Mr. Green Wipe was ah off-loading his gas grenade AT
the garage door. Being as Mrs.
Spanish Woman WAS HOME... I’s ah have no qualm about the “second visit” HER
right off to “If you ever” on that old cannon. SO:::: I was
“cross town Johnny” to her doorstep but, ah, FIRST, as it is “TRASH DAY” up on
Chatterton’s Hill, I, even though it....:
NO it AIN’T a LONG way back to Ferris Avenue after all IS IT... thought
I’d swing by (up, around and then over & down) just to peek AND refresh
myself with...OUR Nation’s heritage... cause I ain’t like you and ah gonna MISS
a chance to immerse myself in the private dream land of American history I have
BUILT FOR MYSELF while ...you watched TV?
UP
Battle Avenue I went (after a cut-back on Columbia that offered “nothing good
left” [in the roadside trash] for by nine in the morning the whole damn world
of Trash Babies done “DID IT”; pick the piles BUT that can be qualified by a
super superlative state that AFTER the Trash Babies “do it” they USUALLY don’t
do it again cause... MOST of ‘em gotta “be” something or SOMEWHERE else until
“dawn of the next day”. REMEMBER
THAT cause its REAL IMPORTANT)[1]. GOSH I love Battle Avenue.
WHY? Not because of the trash I promise but
...because of “it’s place” “in history”.
But I didn’t go very far before it was back to trash. Half way up the Avenue I see a, ah,
let’s call it “a commode” that was in fact an old (ca. 1910) four drawer little
something or other that “held stuff” once in the lady’s boudoir but had been...
“I don’t want it anymore.” on into an “OBVIOUSLY GOOD but”, as the ‘burban
PULLED ALONG SIDE, “it’s” been “in the basement?” for, like... FIFTY years and
“still retained” the once attractive but now disgusting pastel pea green paint
(“baby shit green” in Maine vernacular) from it’s ole glory day’s of interior
private home eminence. Looks like
thirty bucks to me and I “flipped it in”; got out, put the gloves on, lifted
the ... “PIECE” out of the pile AFTER opening the rear doors of the ‘burban,
“tucked her in” and returned to the pile to vigilantly scan for “anything more
I can use”.
WELL: Right then Son of a Bitch and his DAD
come across the yard from the, once again..., under the house basement - garage
door of “the home” where, it is concise to point out NOW, that so much
of what I ...find... does seem to come out of that... one may NOW
understand why to people such as myself title this the ...RECTUM... of the home
that is in fact a dignified sort of FRONT DOOR TO PARADISE (“FUCK the DOOR
BELL, Honey!”).
Since
Dad had done something like parachute behind enemy lines in WW II while holding
a Bowie knife in his teeth, he not only understood the concept of my visit real
quick and ...didn’t care... BUT...:
Since Son of Bitch was new to the real world and STILL SUCKING ON THE
OLD BITCH’S (“my Mom’s”) TIT (and living at home) he was, ah... taken ah back
(“Get a job, Fart Boy.” WE exchanged as non-verbal pleasantries)... THAT I
would violate HIS trash in broad daylight. I had a wooden board that was once used to iron sleeves in
my hand and it had two pair of angle irons on it (that’s $2.69 a pair at your
local hardware store) so... I could, ah, “use that”. He looked at me.
I looked at him.
I
was older than him. He kept
looking at me. I... looked at what
he and Dad were carrying. EACH
carried an old cardboard box filled with ...old... one pound Maxwell House
coffee tins in the always decoratively attractive orange scrip (inclusive of
the “last drop” cup in white & orange) with medium blue background. “Huh.” said my mind and “red screen” and
my mouth said “You throw’en THOSE?
I can USE THOSE”. Dad knew
the ropes and JUST HANDED his box to me.
Son of Bitch started to stare into the top of his box like he’d ah...
might just come out of KING TUT’S tomb “with something” “good” “?” so... I
actually, after the tuck’en in (to the ‘burban) of Dad’s box... where upon Dad
surveyed the visible contents of the ‘burban... TOOK the damn box from... the
kid... while, I do believe, he was ah try’en to get the GALL (or maybe
just his BILE SACK) to, ah, enunciate to the WORLD that “CAN” I “DO THAT”
inclusive of the “HEY THAT’S MY MOM’S OLD VANITY SHE KEPT HER TAMPONS IT!”
inter-self verbalized Existential epiphany that I... am witness to all the
time... .
“Kiss
my butt.” is the best way to circumvent this kid so I did the physical
mannerism to indicate that ... “I am pro, you’re a kid, I am doing this, beat
it” finalized with the always important body language “Don’t fuck with me on
this you big fat overfed mamma’s boy and go back inside and play computer games
in YOUR BEDROOM”. This includes my
inner self observation that this kid was as big as the house and it was real
nice that his Dad was there to hold his lease. Dad, meanwhile, had completed his research at the back of
the ‘burban and volunteered that “they” “had another box of cans inside”.
“I’d
like those to if it’s OK.” I said right up front.
“Course
it is. I don’t know why I saved
‘em. What you gonna do with ‘em”.
“Put
screws and stuff in ‘em”.
“I
think that’s what I figured I’D do.
I never did you can see.
But, you know: I can never
throw anything like that out. I’ll
get ‘em”.
He
turned and walked back toward the rectum of his home. I turned and tucked the kid’s box in. Son of a Bitch just stood there for a
few seconds and I figured I was gonna have to dance with him once he formed his
verbal ...stool sample... but, suddenly, he turned and scooted back after
Dad. That chicken shit asshole kid
ain’t ah gonna go ANYWHERE in life until DAD puts HIM OUT FOR THE TRASH. Now I figured, as Dad reappeared with
the box, that I was going to have to dance with DAD (the Maine dance, etc.)
which wouldn’t be too bad unless, of course, he started on to what a fart in a
mitten[2]
his kid is... and THAT dance... does perpetually happen to me... even in these
roadside vignettes. But he didn’t.
He
just passed me the box so I had to ask “Are you putting out a lot more?”
“No. Just an old bed and mattress”.
This
was affirmed with Son of a Bitch emerging from the rectum with... A MATTRESS...
so... I, not wanting to have to help carry “it” and... being satisfied with my
...lot in life... said “Thanks a lot” and stepped right around to the driver’s
seat and ... drove on up the road.
Not
that far though. Toward the top I
hooked a right and rolled up over the crest to be just above where... I
suppose... long, long ago... Alexander Hamilton ... “placed” his
artillery. Damn I wish I knew the
“exactly” on that but I guess it don’t matter cause half of that fact of
history is purported to be legend and the only old photograph I’ve seen is a
primitive snapshot of some bushes with a bare spot that was taken ten decades
before the Hill was “built up”.
Today the historic position is probably covered by someone’s garage for
all I know. Don’t matter to my
romance for I was “pointed” in the right direction; the direction Hamilton
would have fired, AT the right spot... so... fuck it; it’s good enough. Also: I was hook’en on around to be sure it was “just a bed &
mattress” cause... you never know.
Don’t forget this last cause we gotta do a vignette here to clear the land
I’s ah “work’en”.
[1]: OK, I’ll explain. Trash is put out when ever “anyone”
feels like it. NOW: IF you’s ah read CLEARLY the
Westchester Housewife “comes out to forage” utterance, one will notice that THEY are not out
at dawn ‘cept, of course for the ole, ah, “power walks” and all... (an
interactive paradise of it’s own for me) SO’S most trash “out then” is either
“Husband put out “‘before work” or “LAST NIGHT”. Therefore, once the downtime of the daily hygiene &
“appearance is everything”, the fix the house up, the tell the servants what to
do (and this often includes “THROW ALL THAT OUT”), I quickly enter the long six
to seven hour stretch of around any bend at anytime “someone” “could be”
roadside disposal activity that I ALSO give notice is the time when things...
THINGS are “put out” LIKE CHESTS OF DRAWERS..., OIL PAINTINGS in their
“original frame”... and (or) a... whole garage & basement contents... cause
them dawn & dusk hours is usually “don’t got time” and there’s no
“help”. So let’s not panic... and
say that, ah, “all this” (the
throwing out of rarities) is “in the dawns early light. IT AIN’T! It is in fact an “all day” kind of thing and MOST Trash
Babies “ain’t around”. That just
leaves the me? I’ll get to that.
[2]: “Fart in a mitten” is a Maine
expression for the, ah, childhood action of holding a mitten covered hand over
your asshole, farting into it and then vigorously holding the “fart in a
mitten” over another kid’s nose for a “good sniff’.
No comments:
Post a Comment