June Bug

April Showers, 2020

Number Nine

Dear Cheryl –

I bet you never expected to hear from me again. But I have been thinking, especially with this virus thing going around (I almost could hear the way you would pronounce that – like ‘Tha-ang’) that who knows, maybe nobody survives? Or it’s just a big hoax and it all blows up. Anyway, in either case there are a couple things I would like to get straightened out. Between us.

First. I never once said that your neck looked like ring of bologna. And even if I did, that hardly seems to be the kind of thing that would cause you to have your brother jump me outside The Library with his pals from the motorcycle club.

Ha ha. Of course that’s meant to be a joke.  You don’t even have a brother. But I figured I better get your attention. Right. Then another funny thing is I’m typing this on your old Smith-Corona. Yes, the one you left in the utility room shed with your brushes and oils and all that other crap you were always going to sell. If I still drank, I’d drink a Corona in your memory.

In case you were wondering about me, how I was doing in this time of national analyzation, (which I am sure you are not) I’m not very damn good. It’s down to me and Ike on nights and we’re busier than a cat covering shit on a marble floor.

One of the guys on days, Hector, we call him Hector the Erector; because, you know, he is always building shit. And it almost never works. Last thing he made was an air over hydraulic lift so you could get your arm under the dumpster to release the locking mechanism without taking it off from the inside. Right. Made me think of you. You’re always fucking things up too.

Anyway, he was showing it off to the boss and it fell on his arm. It didn’t break but he had a hell of blood bruise. He cried like a little baby. I would have. Fuckin’ A I would have.

You know, it struck me the other day that maybe I acted a bit hastily, or re-acted a bit hastily. I mean you’re not the first woman who has stole her old man’s truck and left him for her drug dealer. And had a baby with him. And then wanted to come home, baby and all. But, what the hell? Forgive and forget, right?  We always wanted to have a kid anyway. So when you said you wanted to meet, I thought sure, why not? Maybe we can work this thing out.

I bought the coffee (no ‘Thanks, Mace!’?) and we sat on that bench, you weeping about how bad Raul treated you and the little kid, what’s his name? He is real cute, I’ll give you that. I wondered if he is still in diapers, you know, shitting his pants and all? But all I could think about was what you said when I went and got my truck back from you over at Raul’s.

“I did it for you, Mace.”

WTF, dude. First off, I would never leave you for my drug dealer. Of course, Raul is a 6’2” vaquero from Venezuela and mine was a guy I’d meet under the bridge named June Bug. Second off, that’s the kind of man you need, isn’t it Cheryl? You need a man who has all those little bags of white powder and treats you like shit. But I’m not going to rescue you from that anymore. Cheryl, I don’t know what has changed about how I feel except this Chinese virus fucking everything up, but the thing is I feel noble. I feel virile. You know? So, no. We ain’t getting back together.

Anyway, if you’re still doing the hair cutting thing, I could use one. I tried to cut it micelf with a beard trimmer. Not too successfully. So it looks a little choppy. But it isn’t like I’m going to visit the Pope or anything.

As always, Mason the Virile The cruel month, 12th Day, Year of Our Lord 2020

Next Letter: Doc Birx

Author: hsderkin

H. Scott Derkin lives with his wife and a scruffy miniature poodle mix on the banks of a river in NW Michigan. By not taking into account his shortcomings, his wife has managed to stay with him for over half a century.