[lit-ideas] Sunday Story
- From: David Ritchie <ritchierd@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
- Date: Sun, 17 Apr 2011 10:15:10 -0700
I found out this week that Victor Hugo's mother's name was Trebuchet. If
anything's worth knowing, surely it's that. Imagine young V. at the breakfast
table.
"Mum," he says.
"Yes, bastard number three?" she replies, in the jolly, old-fashioned way they
had back then.
"I think I'm developing opinions."
"It's normal for a boy your age. Can I fling you more jam?"
"No thanks. I'll just scrape some off this wall."
Thinking about "off the wall"... Gardening Guy turned up very late on Thursday.
He explained that he'd passed a bad night. "Neighbors," he said,
enigmatically.
I replied, thinking the problem was noise, "We've all had nights like that."
About a half an hour later, with the pathetic fallacy and Oregon rain in full
force, there came a tap on the door. Could he have aspirin?
"Of course. Headache?"
"No," he said, "My heart. Those dogs of neighbors spent the whole night
injecting my chest with drugs."
What to do at this point? Insist he not lift things? Talk to him about Victor
Hugo's mother? Call R. D. Laing?
David Ritchie,
Portland,
Oregon------------------------------------------------------------------
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