Home > Royer's Madcap Experiences > Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Bimbi and the Challenge at the Counter

Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Bimbi and the Challenge at the Counter

November 25, 2013 Leave a comment Go to comments

By Ric Royer
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She was a bimbi straight out of the continent.  We met in a cafe– I was reading a copy of Behind Enthusiast.  Right out in public– I didn’t give a shit.

“Would you like to walk by the old churchyard?” she asked.
“Let’s make it quick,” I said and I showed her the new shorts I had just purchased and their tendency to ride up on the thigh.
“Yes, that must be uncomfortable,” she said.  I crushed my lips to hers suddenly. “Forget about the shorts,” I whispered sensuously.

Later, we went for that walk. There was a little wall there but no yard to be seen. I made a comment.

“Yes, there used to be a lovely verdant churchyard here,” she said as the sun glinted off her coiffed auburn hair. “But after a time, the people, they said, no, and then they said , oh fuck this crap, we’ve had enough of this crap and then the yard was plowed over in favor of this cracked asphalt and weed combination that you see today.”

“Must’ve been sad,” I said.  Secretly though, I admired the cracked asphalt-weed combination.

“Yes.  Yes, it was terribly.  I don’t believe that my mother, an immigrant from the Northern Hole Area, ever got over it.”

We walked on and eventually came upon a Pappy’s Chicken.  I was suddenly starving.

“Hey, you wanna’ get a 24-piece?  Maybe go out into the woods with it?”

She looked at the ground.  “No…no…I will wait here.”

It took forever.  While in line, I was suddenly challenged by another patron.  We fought around back with clubs that had been set on fire at both ends.  I came away victorious but with a terrible mark on the forehead.  Plus, I had to buy the 24-piece all over again.  “I told you to set it aside,” I yelled.  But the fucker at the front counter played dumb.  I knew he’d have at the bucket as soon as I left.

“I’m sorry,” I said to the bimbi.

“It was a challenge,” she said and shrugged her shoulders.  From somewhere, she produced a moistened cloth.  “Come back to my room.”

By candlelight, the bimbi nursed me back to health.  I admired some paintings that were flanking a battered bureau.

“Those were done by my mother.  They are meant to reflect the difficulties of immigrant life in Lankville.”

“I like the yellows,” I offered.    I closed my eyes and listened to the trickle of water in the basin.

“Think of things besides the fire clubs,” she whispered.

“I won that challenge.  You know that.”

“There are no winners in a challenge.  Look at the paintings again.”

They seemed suddenly transformed.  The figures had changed, were far more grotesque than before.  One was holding a pizza.

“That is what I see when I see Lankville.  That is what my mother saw.”

I was beginning to understand.

Nevertheless, we had intercourse.

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