Some would say I deserve a standing ovation. Others would prefer you didn’t egg me on. Either way, regarding our half-baked idea, here’s how it boils down:
The plot of this story is a simple one: a case of boy meets chicken, boy loses chicken, boy finds chicken.
____________
The Best Laid Plans of Guys and Hens
Creative Treatment Draft 1
Act I
Our protagonist, a farm-hand named Monty, begins a relationship with a chicken. The chicken is the most beautiful he has ever seen — poultry in motion.
Act II
Monty runs afoul of the chicken farmer, Captain Pullet, who disapproves of the relationship. Cap Pullet tries to keep them apart, to no avail. At the end of the second act, he sells the chicken to a fast-food chicken chain in an effort to break them up.
Act III
Monty, thinking she has flown the coop, searches for his one true love, but she is nowhere to be found. Finally, exhausted and hungry, he stops in the chicken restaurant — where he finds his lover. With slaw.
Monty, overcome with grief, is consoled by the lady behind the counter at the restaurant. They share his chicken meal and top it off by breaking the wishbone together. Monty falls for the girl and all thoughts of the chicken are gone for good. He returns to the farm the cock of the walk. Arm in arm with his new love interest, he introduces her to the family, exclaiming proudly, “Look, Ma — no hens!”
Curtain.
Wednesday, November 11, 1998
Tuesday, May 20, 1997
Correspondence: May 20, 1997
To Director of Alumni Programs, The Paideia School
After two downsizings this decade, I have finally settled as Sales Assistant at the Jack Morton Company, a corporate communications firm with offices across the nation. (I’ve been through one acquisition since I’ve been here, but this time I made the cut.)
I have my own desk which is home to my own day planner, my own toys and my own phone with lots of buttons. It is distressing to look back and realize that I started my life as Calvin, but I have ended up as Dilbert.
I recently moved so I could be closer to work, I can’t get a date and I spend my spare time watching my hair turn white.
After two downsizings this decade, I have finally settled as Sales Assistant at the Jack Morton Company, a corporate communications firm with offices across the nation. (I’ve been through one acquisition since I’ve been here, but this time I made the cut.)
I have my own desk which is home to my own day planner, my own toys and my own phone with lots of buttons. It is distressing to look back and realize that I started my life as Calvin, but I have ended up as Dilbert.
I recently moved so I could be closer to work, I can’t get a date and I spend my spare time watching my hair turn white.
Thursday, April 10, 1997
Let’s Talk about Atlanta
While much of the country is just now shaking free of winter’s icy grip, our city is in full flower. Our tree-lined streets are blooming one after the other in a Driving-Miss-Daisy chain of greenery. Landscapers with necks the color of red clay are putting pansies on every corner and pruning until they are bushed. Clouds of yellow pollen are settling on the city like some great Dustbowl of fertility. And, for those who suffer from allergies, our heads are about to explode.
Atlanta’s Jack Morton office is enjoying a similar Spring. After long lying dormant, our office is germinating with new faces and new perspectives. An eager and enthusiastic group suddenly finds itself part of a fecund company rich with talent beyond all imagining. The flowering of ideas resulting from this cross-pollination is unlike any seen in Atlanta for years. Our office is burgeoning with creativity, and our ideas — like those peach trees you hear about — are blossoming and will soon bear the fruit of our labor. We’re inspired. We’re excited ... and our heads are about to explode.
Atlanta’s Jack Morton office is enjoying a similar Spring. After long lying dormant, our office is germinating with new faces and new perspectives. An eager and enthusiastic group suddenly finds itself part of a fecund company rich with talent beyond all imagining. The flowering of ideas resulting from this cross-pollination is unlike any seen in Atlanta for years. Our office is burgeoning with creativity, and our ideas — like those peach trees you hear about — are blossoming and will soon bear the fruit of our labor. We’re inspired. We’re excited ... and our heads are about to explode.
Monday, December 25, 1995
The Bum’s Rush
It was on a cold December’s Day, nearly Christmas time,
And Adam lived upon the street — he didn’t have a dime.
His beard was long and snowy white; his nose was chapped and red.
He wore a second-hand knit cap atop his grimy head.
That head was nearly void of hair, but for a tiny hummock.
But the hair he lacked up on the top grew on his ample stomach.
His stomach was the feature of which he most complained,
But, of all of Adam’s body parts, it was the best maintained.
The day was dark and icy-cold, a worse Christmas he hadn’t known.
He was lost, forsaken and forlorn — he’d ne’er been so alone.
He pulled his tattered collar tight; his coat was just a rag,
In his hand, Vicks Vap-o-Rub wrapped in a paper bag.
“I have my self respect!” was his aggrieved lament,
Though he ate from garbage cans and slept on the cement.
“I have my health, I hardly smell, I walk with head held high.
“And any man I come across, I can look right in the eye.”
To those who passed him on the street he was not so proud a thing.
He was wretched and beneath contempt, though of beggars he was king.
They saw a man who labored hard to stay alive in their cruel city,
But, in spite of all his toil, all he earned was pity.
He said, “I wouldn’t be like this,” as runny nostril he did daub,
“I wouldn’t be this woeful wretch if I only had a job.
“I want to work … I want a job,” and with a sob his shoulders shook.
“But no one will come and give me one, and I’m too tired to look.”
A frigid wind began to blow; trash went dancing down the street.
Adam huddled in a doorway and tried to warm his tired feet.
A cozy family restaurant’s door was the haven he had chosen.
The smiling folk inside were warm while Adam was half frozen.
A lady and her little girl saw Adam and gave pause.
“Mommy, look!” the daughter cried, “Look! It’s Santa Claus!”
The mother of the little girl examined Adam, full of doubt,
From his old knit cap to his worn-out shoes where his toe was sticking out.
“Oh, no, my dear,” the lady said, “this is not Saint Nick.
“Come along, don’t look at him. He’s just a derelict.”
She looked away and bustled past and pulled her daughter by the arm.
They left poor Adam standing there and went inside where it was warm.
They chose a table by the window to escape the restaurant’s din,
And were surprised to look outside and see poor Adam looking in.
The woman sought to ignore the wretch, a blind eye she tried to turn.
“Of all the nerve! Just look at him — these poor will never learn!”
“You can’t turn from those in need,” the daughter cried, “You can’t. A
“Man deserves much more than that — and, Mommy, that is Santa!”
The mother looked and saw the way he eyed the food upon her plate,
And then the thing that happened next could be best described as fate.
She looked away from Adam and the window his breath was steaming,
And atop the restaurant’s Christmas tree she saw an angel gleaming.
And as she watched that angel, so serene upon her perch,
She heard the melancholy bells of a lonely, distant church.
Outside, some carolers gathered ’round and stood by Adam on the street.
And, as they sang, it began to snow — the Yuletide scene was then complete.
She regarded Adam’s grubby hat and stomach hanging o’er his belt,
Then she looked into her daughter’s eyes and her heart began to melt.
“I think you’re right, he’s Santa Claus,” she told her daughter with a grin.
“But it looks as if he’s lost his way; why don’t you invite him in?”
So, then Adam came inside and joined them at their meal.
With a word of thanks he sat himself and began to eat with zeal.
“Oh,” he said, “how good this bread! And how tender is this meat!
“How fine this Coca-Cola — Ah, how I love to eat!”
“Oh, Santa Claus,” the girl asked as he ate his turkey with all the fixin’s,
“Can I see your little elves? Can I have a ride on Vixen?”
“Santa Claus? But I am not … Oh — you think … I see!
“I’d hoped not to be recognized. Kris Kringle, yes, that’s me.”
The girl asked Adam, “Where’s your sleigh? And your sack stuffed full of toys
“That you bring on Christmas morning to all the little girls and boys?”
“Ah, my dear,” he improvised, “This may be hard for such a tyke,
“But my reindeer fell to hunters and my elves are all on strike.
“So I have no presents now, you see, but I have ’til Christmas Eve.
“And even without reindeer … I have bus fare, I believe.”
“So don’t worry about Christmas, hear?” he said, as gravy he did sop,
“I’ve checked my list, and checked it twice, and your name is right on top.”
He finished off a final crumb, then he scratched and burped.
He gave his belly a little pat, “That hits the spot,” he chirped.
Then, with a groan, Adam stood, “I’m afraid I have to go.
“Thank you for the meal,” he said, “Merry Christmas. Ho ho ho!”
He paused a moment at the door, savoring the heat,
Then prepared to step outside and resume his life upon the street.
“Santa, wait!” The girl ran to him and grabbed him by the shirt.
“Please come back and sit with us — you haven’t had dessert.”
“Oh, little girl,” Adam said, “I’m not Santa Claus. I lied.
“But I was hungry, I was cold and I had to get inside.”
“I knew you were not Santa when I first saw you standing there.
“’Cause Santa is much thinner and Santa has more hair.
“Now come back to our table and eat some pumpkin pie.
“It doesn’t matter who you are, and I’ll tell you why.”
“This is the Christmas season, a time for goodwill to men.
“To let you stay out on the street — it would have been a sin.”
So then Adam sat back down and his napkin he unfurled,
And he realized this little girl was his best friend in the world.
He wished he had some gift to give this little one who was so good,
But Adam was so poor he gave the only present that he could.
“God bless your soul,” Adam said as he brushed away a tear.
“Have a Merry Christmas and a wonderful New Year.”
And Adam lived upon the street — he didn’t have a dime.
His beard was long and snowy white; his nose was chapped and red.
He wore a second-hand knit cap atop his grimy head.
That head was nearly void of hair, but for a tiny hummock.
But the hair he lacked up on the top grew on his ample stomach.
His stomach was the feature of which he most complained,
But, of all of Adam’s body parts, it was the best maintained.
The day was dark and icy-cold, a worse Christmas he hadn’t known.
He was lost, forsaken and forlorn — he’d ne’er been so alone.
He pulled his tattered collar tight; his coat was just a rag,
In his hand, Vicks Vap-o-Rub wrapped in a paper bag.
“I have my self respect!” was his aggrieved lament,
Though he ate from garbage cans and slept on the cement.
“I have my health, I hardly smell, I walk with head held high.
“And any man I come across, I can look right in the eye.”
To those who passed him on the street he was not so proud a thing.
He was wretched and beneath contempt, though of beggars he was king.
They saw a man who labored hard to stay alive in their cruel city,
But, in spite of all his toil, all he earned was pity.
He said, “I wouldn’t be like this,” as runny nostril he did daub,
“I wouldn’t be this woeful wretch if I only had a job.
“I want to work … I want a job,” and with a sob his shoulders shook.
“But no one will come and give me one, and I’m too tired to look.”
A frigid wind began to blow; trash went dancing down the street.
Adam huddled in a doorway and tried to warm his tired feet.
A cozy family restaurant’s door was the haven he had chosen.
The smiling folk inside were warm while Adam was half frozen.
A lady and her little girl saw Adam and gave pause.
“Mommy, look!” the daughter cried, “Look! It’s Santa Claus!”
The mother of the little girl examined Adam, full of doubt,
From his old knit cap to his worn-out shoes where his toe was sticking out.
“Oh, no, my dear,” the lady said, “this is not Saint Nick.
“Come along, don’t look at him. He’s just a derelict.”
She looked away and bustled past and pulled her daughter by the arm.
They left poor Adam standing there and went inside where it was warm.
They chose a table by the window to escape the restaurant’s din,
And were surprised to look outside and see poor Adam looking in.
The woman sought to ignore the wretch, a blind eye she tried to turn.
“Of all the nerve! Just look at him — these poor will never learn!”
“You can’t turn from those in need,” the daughter cried, “You can’t. A
“Man deserves much more than that — and, Mommy, that is Santa!”
The mother looked and saw the way he eyed the food upon her plate,
And then the thing that happened next could be best described as fate.
She looked away from Adam and the window his breath was steaming,
And atop the restaurant’s Christmas tree she saw an angel gleaming.
And as she watched that angel, so serene upon her perch,
She heard the melancholy bells of a lonely, distant church.
Outside, some carolers gathered ’round and stood by Adam on the street.
And, as they sang, it began to snow — the Yuletide scene was then complete.
She regarded Adam’s grubby hat and stomach hanging o’er his belt,
Then she looked into her daughter’s eyes and her heart began to melt.
“I think you’re right, he’s Santa Claus,” she told her daughter with a grin.
“But it looks as if he’s lost his way; why don’t you invite him in?”
So, then Adam came inside and joined them at their meal.
With a word of thanks he sat himself and began to eat with zeal.
“Oh,” he said, “how good this bread! And how tender is this meat!
“How fine this Coca-Cola — Ah, how I love to eat!”
“Oh, Santa Claus,” the girl asked as he ate his turkey with all the fixin’s,
“Can I see your little elves? Can I have a ride on Vixen?”
“Santa Claus? But I am not … Oh — you think … I see!
“I’d hoped not to be recognized. Kris Kringle, yes, that’s me.”
The girl asked Adam, “Where’s your sleigh? And your sack stuffed full of toys
“That you bring on Christmas morning to all the little girls and boys?”
“Ah, my dear,” he improvised, “This may be hard for such a tyke,
“But my reindeer fell to hunters and my elves are all on strike.
“So I have no presents now, you see, but I have ’til Christmas Eve.
“And even without reindeer … I have bus fare, I believe.”
“So don’t worry about Christmas, hear?” he said, as gravy he did sop,
“I’ve checked my list, and checked it twice, and your name is right on top.”
He finished off a final crumb, then he scratched and burped.
He gave his belly a little pat, “That hits the spot,” he chirped.
Then, with a groan, Adam stood, “I’m afraid I have to go.
“Thank you for the meal,” he said, “Merry Christmas. Ho ho ho!”
He paused a moment at the door, savoring the heat,
Then prepared to step outside and resume his life upon the street.
“Santa, wait!” The girl ran to him and grabbed him by the shirt.
“Please come back and sit with us — you haven’t had dessert.”
“Oh, little girl,” Adam said, “I’m not Santa Claus. I lied.
“But I was hungry, I was cold and I had to get inside.”
“I knew you were not Santa when I first saw you standing there.
“’Cause Santa is much thinner and Santa has more hair.
“Now come back to our table and eat some pumpkin pie.
“It doesn’t matter who you are, and I’ll tell you why.”
“This is the Christmas season, a time for goodwill to men.
“To let you stay out on the street — it would have been a sin.”
So then Adam sat back down and his napkin he unfurled,
And he realized this little girl was his best friend in the world.
He wished he had some gift to give this little one who was so good,
But Adam was so poor he gave the only present that he could.
“God bless your soul,” Adam said as he brushed away a tear.
“Have a Merry Christmas and a wonderful New Year.”
Monday, July 4, 1994
Correspondence: December 29, 1993
December 29, 1993
Carthage, TN
My situation has changed somewhat. I’m in Carthage for awhile taking care of the old folks. My grandmother suffered a stroke on December 12, which was, ironically, just before my father’s vacation, and he had planned to come up here anyway.
My father’s sister has been up here looking after the grandparents since August, so she was on hand to call 911 and get Grandma to the hospital. Grandpa checked into the hospital on the same day so my aunt could keep an eye on both of them.
After a week or so, Grandma was moved to a rehab center in a nearby town. She had several setbacks (which I should save for a later story) and is now in a hospital in Lebanon, while Grandpa is still in the hospital in Carthage. My father, my aunt and I have labored to provide each with round-the-clock care. (That’s three people for four shifts in two cities.)
I was able to get down to Atlanta on Tuesday and planned to return today (Thursday), but my cousin drowned and my aunt had to get back to Georgia and I had to drive all night Wednesday in order to sit here in the hospital all day today.
So that’s the deal. I bought a laptop [486 w/200 meg HD and internal modem] while I was in Atlanta, so I have a way to compute, but I haven’t worked out a reliable way to get on the Internet. I’m waiting for Grandpa’s Valium to hit, and then I will see if I can utilize the phone jack here in the hospital room.
I don’t know if I will be able to check my e-mail on any regular basis. If you don’t hear from me for a while, rest assured that I will document the events of this bittersweet comedy as they unfold, and I will try to get them onto the net as often as possible.
____________
January 17, 1994
Carthage, TN
We are still dealing with the aftermath of Grandma’s demise. Grandpa has improved some since he came home from the hospital — his memory seems to work better here. I don’t remember when I last spoke to you, but Grandpa and I didn’t go to the funeral. The weather was bad, so we kept him in the hospital. We didn’t know if he would be able to handle it, anyway. Pop took him to the funeral home the day before the funeral, and I heard that he took it pretty hard.
I sat with him on the day of the funeral. (I never saw Grandma after she died. I learned my lesson with Bob and Reba.) He was confused all that morning. He’d say, “When’s the funeral?”
“11:00!” I’d say. Mind you, I had to yell loud enough for him to hear.
“Who are they burying?”
“Grandma!”
“Your Grandma?”
“Yep!”
“My wife?”
“Yep!”
“Well, who’d they bury yesterday?”
“Nobody! You went to see her at the funeral home yesterday!”
“When’s the funeral?”
“11:00!”
“I can’t go.”
“No, the weather’s too bad! We’re going to stay here!”
“Who died?”
And so on, all morning long.
Now he tells his story to everyone (usually two or three times in rapid succession), and he adjusts the facts to suit him.
“I only saw her twice after she got sick.” (He actually saw her quite a few times in the hospital, but only for short periods of time because she couldn’t talk well, and he got choked up.) “I saw her once in Lebanon” (I don’t know where he got that), “and I went to see her when she was a corpse. I didn’t even get to go to the fun’ral!”
____________
Grandpa and BK
March, 1994
____________
July 4, 1994
Carthage, TN
... I am still in Carthage where it is deucedly inconvenient and expensive to get on the Internet. Not only is everything a long distance call from here, but the grand-parental home has a rotary dial phone with one of those old kind of lines that goes right into the wall where wires are twisted around little screws, or some damn thing. There is no jack to plug the computer into even if we had touchtone service. Stone knives and bearskins! What I have been doing is going to Atlanta every month or so and downloading a month’s worth of mail at a time. It takes me a while to plow through all of it. ...
It has been unbearably hot so far this summer. My experience of this exquisite heat has been enhanced by living with an 86 year old man. (“Turn that damn air off — I’m freezing!”) Just about everyone has set their tobacco, and the earliest batches are just about to blossom. Many peoples’ corn is beginning to show tassels. I don’t see how these people can plow in this heat. I reel on the edge of consciousness just from shutting the bathroom off from the air conditioning in the rest of the house long enough to make use of its services. As hot and as humid as it gets in there, using the bathroom becomes almost like a Native American vision-quest without the peyote. A bowel movement becomes a religious experience. (I just touched the face of God! Somebody bring me some paper!)
I have been exploring different ways to combat boredom. This whole county is like a big sensory deprivation tank; I have to provide my own stimuli. I joined a science book club, and have read several intriguing books about quantum physics and hyperspace, etc. And, in the time-honored tradition of prisoners everywhere, I am learning to play the harmonica.
Carthage, TN
My situation has changed somewhat. I’m in Carthage for awhile taking care of the old folks. My grandmother suffered a stroke on December 12, which was, ironically, just before my father’s vacation, and he had planned to come up here anyway.
My father’s sister has been up here looking after the grandparents since August, so she was on hand to call 911 and get Grandma to the hospital. Grandpa checked into the hospital on the same day so my aunt could keep an eye on both of them.
After a week or so, Grandma was moved to a rehab center in a nearby town. She had several setbacks (which I should save for a later story) and is now in a hospital in Lebanon, while Grandpa is still in the hospital in Carthage. My father, my aunt and I have labored to provide each with round-the-clock care. (That’s three people for four shifts in two cities.)
I was able to get down to Atlanta on Tuesday and planned to return today (Thursday), but my cousin drowned and my aunt had to get back to Georgia and I had to drive all night Wednesday in order to sit here in the hospital all day today.
So that’s the deal. I bought a laptop [486 w/200 meg HD and internal modem] while I was in Atlanta, so I have a way to compute, but I haven’t worked out a reliable way to get on the Internet. I’m waiting for Grandpa’s Valium to hit, and then I will see if I can utilize the phone jack here in the hospital room.
I don’t know if I will be able to check my e-mail on any regular basis. If you don’t hear from me for a while, rest assured that I will document the events of this bittersweet comedy as they unfold, and I will try to get them onto the net as often as possible.
____________
January 17, 1994
Carthage, TN
We are still dealing with the aftermath of Grandma’s demise. Grandpa has improved some since he came home from the hospital — his memory seems to work better here. I don’t remember when I last spoke to you, but Grandpa and I didn’t go to the funeral. The weather was bad, so we kept him in the hospital. We didn’t know if he would be able to handle it, anyway. Pop took him to the funeral home the day before the funeral, and I heard that he took it pretty hard.
I sat with him on the day of the funeral. (I never saw Grandma after she died. I learned my lesson with Bob and Reba.) He was confused all that morning. He’d say, “When’s the funeral?”
“11:00!” I’d say. Mind you, I had to yell loud enough for him to hear.
“Who are they burying?”
“Grandma!”
“Your Grandma?”
“Yep!”
“My wife?”
“Yep!”
“Well, who’d they bury yesterday?”
“Nobody! You went to see her at the funeral home yesterday!”
“When’s the funeral?”
“11:00!”
“I can’t go.”
“No, the weather’s too bad! We’re going to stay here!”
“Who died?”
And so on, all morning long.
Now he tells his story to everyone (usually two or three times in rapid succession), and he adjusts the facts to suit him.
“I only saw her twice after she got sick.” (He actually saw her quite a few times in the hospital, but only for short periods of time because she couldn’t talk well, and he got choked up.) “I saw her once in Lebanon” (I don’t know where he got that), “and I went to see her when she was a corpse. I didn’t even get to go to the fun’ral!”
____________
Grandpa and BK
March, 1994
____________
July 4, 1994
Carthage, TN
... I am still in Carthage where it is deucedly inconvenient and expensive to get on the Internet. Not only is everything a long distance call from here, but the grand-parental home has a rotary dial phone with one of those old kind of lines that goes right into the wall where wires are twisted around little screws, or some damn thing. There is no jack to plug the computer into even if we had touchtone service. Stone knives and bearskins! What I have been doing is going to Atlanta every month or so and downloading a month’s worth of mail at a time. It takes me a while to plow through all of it. ...
It has been unbearably hot so far this summer. My experience of this exquisite heat has been enhanced by living with an 86 year old man. (“Turn that damn air off — I’m freezing!”) Just about everyone has set their tobacco, and the earliest batches are just about to blossom. Many peoples’ corn is beginning to show tassels. I don’t see how these people can plow in this heat. I reel on the edge of consciousness just from shutting the bathroom off from the air conditioning in the rest of the house long enough to make use of its services. As hot and as humid as it gets in there, using the bathroom becomes almost like a Native American vision-quest without the peyote. A bowel movement becomes a religious experience. (I just touched the face of God! Somebody bring me some paper!)
I have been exploring different ways to combat boredom. This whole county is like a big sensory deprivation tank; I have to provide my own stimuli. I joined a science book club, and have read several intriguing books about quantum physics and hyperspace, etc. And, in the time-honored tradition of prisoners everywhere, I am learning to play the harmonica.
Wednesday, June 29, 1994
Polyester Pearl
It wasn’t many years ago in my travels ’round the worl’
That I wandered into Tennessee and met Polyester Pearl.
I was shoppin’ in a Wal-Mart near the Coke and tater chips
When I espied that wonder cloth stretched across those mighty hips.
Suddenly, my mouth went dry, my pulse was doin’ ninety,
As, sneaky-like, my eyes caressed her polyester hiney.
My breath, it came in little pants as my gaze danced ’cross her thighs;
I marveled at her lips and chins, and then I saw those eyes.
Those eyes! Whose haunting beauty my heart with lust did fill;
How one it darted to and fro and the other one stood still.
Oh, they called her Polly Esther for her mama’s fav’rite aunts,
But now when people call her name they mean her stretchy pants.
She’s five feet tall and three feet wide; she is a hunk of girl.
Wouldn’t have it any other way, she’s Polly Esther Pearl.
She was a thing of beauty, a girl of poise and grace,
With that spindly cigarette of hers in a Moon Pie-looking face.
I knew beyond a doubt that, as I stood there like a fool,
I must become acquainted with this Appalachian jewel.
With that end in mind, I took aim and launched my shopping cart
At the comely derriere of the girl who stole my heart.
“Ah-ooo!” she cried and spun around a howlin’ and a-roarin’.
“Mister, I think your buggy’s wheel just rolled across my corn!”
Her chalky arms were flailing like the wings upon a dove!
Her voice was so melodious; my meadowlark of love!
Oh, they call her Polly Esther for the clothesline in her yard
And she earned the name of Pearl because she’s round and hard.
With eyes as black as asphalt and blond peroxide curl,
An angel walking on the Earth: that was Polly Esther Pearl.
Then I watched in delight as this vision from my dreams
Bent down to nurse her tender toe, pants straining at the seams.
“Oh!” I said, “I’m sorry!” all innocent and good;
I made my eyes real Bambi-wide — looked as earnest as I could.
Beads of sweat clung to her mustache crownin’ that lovely mouth beneath.
Then she wrapped a sultry smile around her missing teeth.
She said, “Oh, I’ll be all right, now don’t you worry none.
But I’d be obliged if you would rub it,” and I knew her heart I’d won.
I gently took her dainty foot, I knew nothing could go wrong:
I cast aside her Dr. Scholl’s and saw she wore her toenails long.
Oh, they called her Polly Esther, how her looks they could beguile.
If I squinched my eyes up, I could see us two walking down the aisle.
She’d be walkin’ slow and solemn-like, eyes demurely lookin’ down
Above those big ol’ blushin’ bride-cheeks in her polyester wedding gown.
We walked out to her pickup truck, a one with rusted doors,
A tailgate held with baling wire, and a muffler, one that roars.
We drove on out to her place, a yard with lots of dirt and rocks,
And two or three old Chevys a-settin’ up on blocks.
“I bet you must be wonderin’ how I can pay my rent.”
She said, “I’m splittin’ my expenses with the government.”
My heart ’uz wallerin’ with joy when she told me, “Come inside.”
And we went into that house which, like my Pearl, was double wide.
Then we sat down close together, I was all eat up with lust.
And I knew beyond a doubt that I must have Pearl or bust.
Oh, they call her Polly Esther ’cause that’s what she dresses in.
And they say the Pearl part comes from her white, translucent skin.
She shucks boiled peanuts with the deftness of a squirrel,
And she eats them by the bushel, that’s Polly Esther Pearl.
I reached out so that I could touch her lovely, satin skin;
And, gently, I began to stroke the stubble on her chin.
“Pearl,” I said, “you look right nice. I love you, every ounce.
You make me feel all wiggly-like inside where it counts.”
“I’ll bet you say that to all the girls,” she said, kind of playing coy.
But she shed that skin of polyester; I could scarce hold back my joy!
As she peeled that polyester, that elastic and those straps
Left big red lines of latitude between her fleshy flaps.
Then a madman with a shotgun threw back the door and in he came.
He said, “I’m this lady’s husband; I don’t believe I caught your name.”
Oh, my dear sweet Polly Esther, I didn’t know you were a wife!
Or that if I risked my heart on you I’d also risk my life!
How I wished you were a widow and that gun back on the rack,
But I looked at you and realized you’d look like a cannonball in black.
Her husband stood before us, his eyes were fierce and feral.
He aimed his shotgun, there I was a-lookin’ down the barrel.
What claim had he to my girl? I won her, she was mine!
I thought, I’d sooner die than cast my Pearl before this swine!
I said, “I ain’t afraid to die, if you’ve a mind to shoot, go on!
’Cause if you should shoot me dead right now, I’ll know I’ve gnawed life to the bone.”
He slowly pulled the trigger, then he pulled again and cussed it.
Said, “The dad-blame thing!” and tried again, “The firing pin is rusted!”
Now, if I live a hundred years I won’t know if that hammer ever fell.
For I politely tipped my hat and turned, and then I ran like Hell!
Oh, they called her Polly Esther; mister, mark the name.
Her husband’s trigger happy, you’d best hunt diff’rent game.
But, if you don’t believe me and you must give her a whirl,
Just you go on down to Wal-Mart and ask for Polly Esther Pearl.
* * * * * *
Now, as a special reward for reading to the end of the poem,
I present the original introduction which was sent to a friend in New York.
* * * * * *
June 29,1994
Carthage, TN
I’m sending you my poem because I said I would,
So I wrote this introduction as quickly as I could.
It’s my All-But-Final-Version, and, since you may find that distressing,
Let me put your mind at ease; all that’s left is “ballad dressing.”
Now, it seems, after all these nights of rhyming ’til I drop,
I’ve finished up my poem, and I find I cannot stop.
You’d think that, after all these lines, I’d be running out of juice.
But, instead, everything I say sounds like a poor man’s Dr. Seuss.
I’ve always heard them say, “the pen is mightier than the sword,”
And when I find a thing that works, it seems I go overboard.
Well, then, if my little pen is as mighty as it seems,
I could take on old D’Artagnan ’cause I’ve written reams and reams.
I know you must be eager to read my little verse,
But you surely won’t begrudge me a few observations first.
First of all, I must point out these are not angry words.
There’s not just one Polyester Pearl, in fact there are whole herds.
When I go into town I see, as the girls bare more in June,
That young ladies here in Tennessee don’t just blossom — they balloon!
You can tell that spring has flown and the summer has come back;
The fat chicks shed their skins at Wal-Mart and left ’em hangin’ on the rack.
(How can those legs be so white when their necks are oh, so red?
And I’ve never seen butts quite that big outside of quadrupeds!)
Finally, in closing, (you’re far away, what can I lose?)
Here’s the Polyester verse I found too gross to use:
I saw she’d bought Preparation H, and I hoped that she was willing,
’Cause I have a taste for pastry — I love a tart with creamy filling.
(I knew right then that this girl was quite a catch,
For I, too, know frustration of an itch you cannot scratch.)
That I wandered into Tennessee and met Polyester Pearl.
I was shoppin’ in a Wal-Mart near the Coke and tater chips
When I espied that wonder cloth stretched across those mighty hips.
Suddenly, my mouth went dry, my pulse was doin’ ninety,
As, sneaky-like, my eyes caressed her polyester hiney.
My breath, it came in little pants as my gaze danced ’cross her thighs;
I marveled at her lips and chins, and then I saw those eyes.
Those eyes! Whose haunting beauty my heart with lust did fill;
How one it darted to and fro and the other one stood still.
Oh, they called her Polly Esther for her mama’s fav’rite aunts,
But now when people call her name they mean her stretchy pants.
She’s five feet tall and three feet wide; she is a hunk of girl.
Wouldn’t have it any other way, she’s Polly Esther Pearl.
She was a thing of beauty, a girl of poise and grace,
With that spindly cigarette of hers in a Moon Pie-looking face.
I knew beyond a doubt that, as I stood there like a fool,
I must become acquainted with this Appalachian jewel.
With that end in mind, I took aim and launched my shopping cart
At the comely derriere of the girl who stole my heart.
“Ah-ooo!” she cried and spun around a howlin’ and a-roarin’.
“Mister, I think your buggy’s wheel just rolled across my corn!”
Her chalky arms were flailing like the wings upon a dove!
Her voice was so melodious; my meadowlark of love!
Oh, they call her Polly Esther for the clothesline in her yard
And she earned the name of Pearl because she’s round and hard.
With eyes as black as asphalt and blond peroxide curl,
An angel walking on the Earth: that was Polly Esther Pearl.
Then I watched in delight as this vision from my dreams
Bent down to nurse her tender toe, pants straining at the seams.
“Oh!” I said, “I’m sorry!” all innocent and good;
I made my eyes real Bambi-wide — looked as earnest as I could.
Beads of sweat clung to her mustache crownin’ that lovely mouth beneath.
Then she wrapped a sultry smile around her missing teeth.
She said, “Oh, I’ll be all right, now don’t you worry none.
But I’d be obliged if you would rub it,” and I knew her heart I’d won.
I gently took her dainty foot, I knew nothing could go wrong:
I cast aside her Dr. Scholl’s and saw she wore her toenails long.
Oh, they called her Polly Esther, how her looks they could beguile.
If I squinched my eyes up, I could see us two walking down the aisle.
She’d be walkin’ slow and solemn-like, eyes demurely lookin’ down
Above those big ol’ blushin’ bride-cheeks in her polyester wedding gown.
We walked out to her pickup truck, a one with rusted doors,
A tailgate held with baling wire, and a muffler, one that roars.
We drove on out to her place, a yard with lots of dirt and rocks,
And two or three old Chevys a-settin’ up on blocks.
“I bet you must be wonderin’ how I can pay my rent.”
She said, “I’m splittin’ my expenses with the government.”
My heart ’uz wallerin’ with joy when she told me, “Come inside.”
And we went into that house which, like my Pearl, was double wide.
Then we sat down close together, I was all eat up with lust.
And I knew beyond a doubt that I must have Pearl or bust.
Oh, they call her Polly Esther ’cause that’s what she dresses in.
And they say the Pearl part comes from her white, translucent skin.
She shucks boiled peanuts with the deftness of a squirrel,
And she eats them by the bushel, that’s Polly Esther Pearl.
I reached out so that I could touch her lovely, satin skin;
And, gently, I began to stroke the stubble on her chin.
“Pearl,” I said, “you look right nice. I love you, every ounce.
You make me feel all wiggly-like inside where it counts.”
“I’ll bet you say that to all the girls,” she said, kind of playing coy.
But she shed that skin of polyester; I could scarce hold back my joy!
As she peeled that polyester, that elastic and those straps
Left big red lines of latitude between her fleshy flaps.
Then a madman with a shotgun threw back the door and in he came.
He said, “I’m this lady’s husband; I don’t believe I caught your name.”
Oh, my dear sweet Polly Esther, I didn’t know you were a wife!
Or that if I risked my heart on you I’d also risk my life!
How I wished you were a widow and that gun back on the rack,
But I looked at you and realized you’d look like a cannonball in black.
Her husband stood before us, his eyes were fierce and feral.
He aimed his shotgun, there I was a-lookin’ down the barrel.
What claim had he to my girl? I won her, she was mine!
I thought, I’d sooner die than cast my Pearl before this swine!
I said, “I ain’t afraid to die, if you’ve a mind to shoot, go on!
’Cause if you should shoot me dead right now, I’ll know I’ve gnawed life to the bone.”
He slowly pulled the trigger, then he pulled again and cussed it.
Said, “The dad-blame thing!” and tried again, “The firing pin is rusted!”
Now, if I live a hundred years I won’t know if that hammer ever fell.
For I politely tipped my hat and turned, and then I ran like Hell!
Oh, they called her Polly Esther; mister, mark the name.
Her husband’s trigger happy, you’d best hunt diff’rent game.
But, if you don’t believe me and you must give her a whirl,
Just you go on down to Wal-Mart and ask for Polly Esther Pearl.
* * * * * *
Now, as a special reward for reading to the end of the poem,
I present the original introduction which was sent to a friend in New York.
* * * * * *
June 29,1994
Carthage, TN
I’m sending you my poem because I said I would,
So I wrote this introduction as quickly as I could.
It’s my All-But-Final-Version, and, since you may find that distressing,
Let me put your mind at ease; all that’s left is “ballad dressing.”
Now, it seems, after all these nights of rhyming ’til I drop,
I’ve finished up my poem, and I find I cannot stop.
You’d think that, after all these lines, I’d be running out of juice.
But, instead, everything I say sounds like a poor man’s Dr. Seuss.
I’ve always heard them say, “the pen is mightier than the sword,”
And when I find a thing that works, it seems I go overboard.
Well, then, if my little pen is as mighty as it seems,
I could take on old D’Artagnan ’cause I’ve written reams and reams.
I know you must be eager to read my little verse,
But you surely won’t begrudge me a few observations first.
First of all, I must point out these are not angry words.
There’s not just one Polyester Pearl, in fact there are whole herds.
When I go into town I see, as the girls bare more in June,
That young ladies here in Tennessee don’t just blossom — they balloon!
You can tell that spring has flown and the summer has come back;
The fat chicks shed their skins at Wal-Mart and left ’em hangin’ on the rack.
(How can those legs be so white when their necks are oh, so red?
And I’ve never seen butts quite that big outside of quadrupeds!)
Finally, in closing, (you’re far away, what can I lose?)
Here’s the Polyester verse I found too gross to use:
I saw she’d bought Preparation H, and I hoped that she was willing,
’Cause I have a taste for pastry — I love a tart with creamy filling.
(I knew right then that this girl was quite a catch,
For I, too, know frustration of an itch you cannot scratch.)
Monday, June 22, 1992
Correspondence: June 22, 1992
* * * * * *
Das Katzenschtuffe will be in front of the dresser, next to the bed. I’m getting ready ... to clean die Katzenskratchenhaus so you can take it, too. Das Skieneattz will be in a clear plastic jug. I hope das Skiaittennza will be das Guderkittennz during her stay mit youse. Thank you incrediboobably much for taking care of Fraulein Skiakittennza ... I know of no one else I would trust with her quite so much. — Alan
* * * * * *
Subject: Gettenzie Kattenza
Sent on: 06/22 at 06:17 PM
Herr Alan,
Lettenzie knoe ven du arribst und ve kanst organizarung der exchangen der katten. Das Skiaenkatz awaitzen mit sharpenklaus und herrenbals. Mein haus ist herren haus, oder Ich bin thinken zie missenmuch der kittenkatz; missen der schnuglfurz und der pointenearz. Ich schleepen acht- oder neun-uhr, so kommen oder kallen zie early. Utherwise, on workendreiv Ich bringen der ballenfurz. Ich hopenzie hadd ein gut tiem.
Der Freunden, Herr R.C. Kaiser
Subject: Gettenzie Kattenza
Sent on: 06/22 at 06:17 PM
Herr Alan,
Lettenzie knoe ven du arribst und ve kanst organizarung der exchangen der katten. Das Skiaenkatz awaitzen mit sharpenklaus und herrenbals. Mein haus ist herren haus, oder Ich bin thinken zie missenmuch der kittenkatz; missen der schnuglfurz und der pointenearz. Ich schleepen acht- oder neun-uhr, so kommen oder kallen zie early. Utherwise, on workendreiv Ich bringen der ballenfurz. Ich hopenzie hadd ein gut tiem.
Der Freunden, Herr R.C. Kaiser
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