2005-01-28 - 10:31 p.m.
"I feel like some disgruntled housewife from the fifties off to join some march."
"Archie, I know you been sleeping with Mrs. Stevenson! I just know it!"
Spending any time with another comedian is always a risky endeavor. Sparring with warring punchlines, any topic threatens hours, as the jokes leap giddily in the direction of incomprehention. This was a special case, of course, but one must be aware of the puntastic battlefields they tred.
I carried a skillet to see her buried alive, and dig her out.
Over New England, when the mercury drops just below the heel of your shoe, there is no greater possession than a shovel. Houses, trees, bikes, cars and the occational household pet are deluged by an onslaught of the white and flakey, and unfortunatly there is a much greater supply than even Frank from Billing's shoulder can provide.
M'Lady to my side somehow sweet talked a fat-ass spoon out of a nearby bodega, but I was armed only with a flat square skillet to dig out her Impala.
Normally, not being exactly a man of girth and strength - I not only couldn't get the bell to ring at the carnival, I usually couldn't live the mallet, or the two fifty you had to pay the guy...Considering that, digging someone out of a wintery grave wouldn't be something I'd gladly volunteer for. But M'Lady stood barely to my shoulder, and had a good foot of snow to negotiate. She called in the medium guns with me.
The snow had iced over, parting just an inch from the car door. Recognising the work I had before me, I sighed as I shoved the skillet in between the snow and car. One more look up and down the now all white little bug, and I tugged, trying to loosen the snow at least a little.
"Did you like this skillet?"
She gave me the handle to keep after the deed was done.
Being the man who reads in the back of the bar, who only got into sports after he'd hit drinking age, and considers his best physical feets to all involve a fooseball table, it's rare that I get a moment at all to be all butch, and macho. Somehow, I managed to pretend I was having such a moment while heaving in a fedora over piles of snow.
I dug out the tires cursing frozen clumps as I heaved them at the Toyota in from of me.
"Come on, mutha-bitch...Let's go, ya piece of shit..."
Sometimes, if the wind was right: "Yeah, suck it!"
"Hey, hon? You got front wheel drive or rear?"
Twenty minutes later with a clear path dug for the back wheels, I shook my head as the front ones kept spinning.
"What do I know? You broke a skillet."
Thirty minutes with a shovel and there was a runway set.
I heaved the shovel into a bank of ice, and ran a shoulder up against the bumper.
"What are you doing?"
"Checking your trunk for dead bodies and smack, just gun it!"
Three inches. That's about how much she moved under the powers my hulk like biceps. And that was on three seperate attempts. I was about to try and find four bulky swedes like that Mentos commertial, when a young guy in scarf, hat, and mask pointed to the otherside of the bumper.
"Yo. Want me get this end?"
"Come on down."
I mostly slipped and nearly fell down, but the man wrapped in a "North Faith" jacket managed to slam M'lady onto the path. Road worthy one more time.
"HA! HA! Thanks man."
We caught hands, and he just wandered off into the snow. Never got his name. As I strode up to the passenger side of her car, I kept telling myself.
"He'd never have pushed it out if I didn't do such a good job digging it out."
I slopped into the chair, and doffed my hat, turning to smile at her.
"Who's the man?"
2 Letters to the Editor