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Funny Stories by Dick Oakes, Jr.

December 4, 2015 Leave a comment
Dick Oakes, Jr.

Dick Oakes, Jr.

For about three months, I passed her every day at the corner of Pondicherry and Pendleton.

It was nearing summer when she spoke to me.

“Don’t I see you all the time?”
“Yep.”
“What do you do?”
“…I…I do some writing. Freelance.”
“So, you’re a bum? You loaf?”

I had to give it to her. Plus, she had a hell of a set of legs.

She looked between the office buildings where a lonely farmhouse, about to be bulldozed, sat forlornly.

“Because of a lingering pro-rural bias in the scholarship, studies have revealed more about the mid-nineteenth century Lankville farmhouse than about these office towers.”

I nodded senselessly. I had been on my way for some beers. All I had been thinking about were those beers. And now, this.

She stretched and gave me a good look at the cans.

“So, I suppose you’ll write about me, then?”

“Maybe. Mostly, I just cover the Small Motel Wrestling circuit. In the West, at least. They got another clown in the East…” I trailed off.

“I don’t care for Small Motel Wrestling. It’s base.”

“Well, I guess they’ll probably just shut down the whole operation now that that’s out.”

“You’re teasing me.” The sun hit her face. It was god damned glorious.

“Maybe I’ll talk to you again,” she said after a time. The lunch crowd was spilling out of the offices.

“Maybe so.”

I didn’t see her again but I did get those beers.

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