In Cahoots
Created | Updated Jul 18, 2010
I'm glad they laid me off: number one, it's two years since Gladys divorced me, and I'm well-rid of her – even if she's got the house and all my money. And number two, twenty-five years suffering her bitchiness was a life-sentence, no matter which way you count it, and better it is now for me that I'm a bum and not that tight-assed exec she was so proud of.
So here I am at Frenchy's, the coffee shop across the road from where I worked. Every morning, sharp at seven, Frenchy would have my takeout coffee and donut ready, but now he doesn't recognize me behind my hairy face when I slip in at ten past six.
Ever generous of heart, he recognizes me as a down-and-out from the flophouse round the corner and sits me at the end next to the door. He feeds me bacon, eggs and toast when there's not much custom, or a coffee and donut when he's busy, and he never asks a cent. I don't linger when I'm finished, believe me, for I've watched him for years treat many a homeless bum just like me. Eventually they disappear, one by one, so knowing what's comin', I don't push my luck.
And you know, the bums are all men, and I've seldom seen a bag-lady in there lookin' for a bite, though Frenchy'd treat them just the same anyway. Generally, old men don't stick together but find their separate ways, while women; well, women need women, don't they?
Like pain-in-the-ass Gladys, whose mother Irene lived with us for fifteen years. During that time, she interfered with what I had with the kids, spoiling them with too much money, until, thankfully, she died. But then, just my luck, Gladys invites her sister Fanny to come live with us. Soon with the house empty of kids, I found Fanny was increasingly on the make, trying to seduce me every chance she had when Gladys' back was turned. It was like a sickness, and she eventually succeeded. Two winters ago, Gladys left on her own for a vacation in the Bahamas, and although I protested about being left behind, she said the vacation was her reward for putting up with me all these years, and off she went.
I was almost in a state of fright. Fanny was no spring chicken, but had kept her figure. She also had a mean mouth, and if it were not for that, I'd never have seen she'd a face that could sink the Nimitz, which kinda dampened any enthusiasm I might have felt for her – until one night when I came home drunk and forgot to lock the bedroom door.
You can imagine what happened, and it was a big surprise. Fanny was hotter than a sackful of ferrets, her years of frustration taken out on me in what became nightly performances. I think it was the knowledge it would soon end that forced her inventiveness, her need pursued with a vigor that was impossible to keep up with. As it was, I couldn't match her appetite, and was exhausted and nearly blind by the time Gladys came home.
Our deceit left no traces, not in Fanny's, nor my own demeanour, yet Gladys nailed me with charges of infidelity and had me turfed out of house and home within a month. It was not until much later, when one of my kids mentioned Fanny was still living with Gladys, that I figured they had been in cahoots.
So here I am feeling the draft from the door as it continually opens and closes, and I'm listening to the happy banter of Frenchy and his customers, while the odd snowflake swirls in after them.
Damn it, I've never been so happy in my life, and I'm all set to go. It will take about an hour to walk to the Sally Ann, and it should be open by then. I'll find myself a warmer coat and pick out a couple of books, and then head for the soup kitchen.
My days are my own now, don't you see.
