"Limping Through the Charleston" -or- "If This is St. Petersburg, Then Where Are All the Liposuction Clinics?"
Danny DiBlasio (no relation to the Connecticut DiBlasios, the
Kennebunk DiBlasios, or even the DiBlasios over on 83rd
Street whose old man was a dope pusher in his spare time) looked at
himself in the big mirror that hung outside the county building. He
smoothed his little cowlick with a little bit of spit in his palm,
and gave thanks that it was not a larger and angrier cow that had got
to him when he was born. That was, of course, the story he was told.
Heck, we were all told that story – about how old Doc Needleheim
(the OB-GYN man who delivered us – every stinkin' one of us, in
fact) was also into animal husbandry (still punishable by
dismemberment under the laws of several states), and how when we were
being whelped, one of his bovine companions strolled into the
delivery room. Just as we popped our little noggin out of the birth
canal, old Bessie reached over with that big old tongue of hers and
took a lick of our salty little melon, still dripping with the juices
of the womb.
I mention that you might not want to read this while eating
Bessie took a lick, and now we all have these ridiculous patches of
our hair that will not sit still when we try to style them. Cow
licks. Licks from a cow. Uggh. That is what little Danny DiBlasio
tried smoothing down with a little spit as he looked into the big
mirror that hung outside the county building.
Danny looked at his watch and realized that he was late for his
appointment. He gave up on his hair and ran up the flight of stairs
into the flag-monger's shop, taking the last three steps in a leap.
He opened the door and stepped inside, just as his nostrils were met
with the heady, intoxicating aroma of brand-new flags, fresh from the
oven. He breathed deeply and urinated. Just a little bit though.
Urinated, that is. He breathed deeply but urinated sparsely. I
think you know what I'm talking about here.
elderly woman behind the counter addressed little Danny DiBlasio ever
so abruptly. She croaked some kind of words at him. They might have
been Croatian – Danny was not completely sure. He nodded politely
and tried to reply in the only semblance of a foreign language he
have-o appointiamente con el anager-may of-o los flagoleo shoppo,”
tried Danny. “Danke schoen, y muchas dinero, babycakes.”
woman behind the counter stood up and broke wind. An uncomfortable
silence ensued, which Danny tried to break by feigning a coughing and
choking spasm. The woman quickly left the room and Danny thought
that perhaps he should have feigned a seizure instead – that one
works every time, he thought to himself.
but a moment, the man that Danny knew as “Clubb-o” appeared
behind the counter, twirling his mustache, which he kept in a small
box. He looked at Danny, stroked his mustache twice, put it back in
the box, snapped the cover shut and slid it into one of his trouser
pockets. One must always keep one's mustache close at hand, you
of them?” asked Clubb-o at long last.
replied little Danny DiBlasio.
have them ready for you next Tuesday,” said Clubb-o, turning on his
heel and disappearing into his shop.
you,” said to Danny DiBlasio to the thin air.
y problemas, tovarish. Ich habe ein oompa-loompa im mein hosen,”
said the elderly woman – in flawlessly fluent Croatian.