THE LAST WORD

The late fall chill finally crept past the threshold of thrift. As reluctant as I was to acquiesce to winters’ seductive whisper, the alternative was less savory; the whine of icy toed rugrats. But what should have been a simple matter of flip a switch, push a button, light a match became a quandary.

The hoary behemoth that squatted in the basement, hogging more than its fair share of space, farted and belched but refused to cough up any heat. The whiff of gas that I detected was not quite the sort that finds itself trapped between the sheets. What had been an old but reliable friend now stared back at me with bellicose belligerence.

Many things are best savored when left ‘til the last moment. This was not one of them. Visions of impossibility mingled with prayer as I dialed the Power & Light people. I hoped for the best, but expected the worst, trying to gentle my query. They were not about to be fooled into complacency, however.

The lanky serviceman found his way to my stoop with amazing speed, considering his leisurely gait as he slid down my stairs in a molasses-like manner. He finally reappeared in my kitchen to announce the discovery of a loose fitting, and his trip to the truck to get a wrench reminded me that these guys charge by the hour. No surprises so far.

But wait! His eventual reappearance brought unexpected news: The chimney was full of dead birds, which were keeping the flue from opening, and I would have to clean them out. He tried to be subtle as he snuck that last bit in, a fruitless attempt to cloak his distaste. The offer was made to shut off the gas and return when I had accomplished the task.

Ah, but female wiles prevail and he reluctantly admitted that he was authorized to remove them. At an additional cost, of course, and only after phoning his supervisor from the truck for official permission. I was to be responsible for their disposal. Of course.

The task, once settled upon, took on the aspects of a ceremony. Gloves were gathered, and exactly the proper box was sought out. One that was sturdy, and big enough to hold them all, although he couldn’t guess at the number. It needed to have a cover to contain the anticipated stench. I was surprised he didn’t ask for a puke-bag as well, but the time for procrastinating was over. He slunk off in a cloud of trepidation, leaving me to speculate on how a flock of unintelligent birds had found it’s way down my chimney.

I was ready to hunker in for the duration, but he came galloping up the stairs almost immediately, carried by a blast of relief, box in hand. “You’ll never guess what it was!” he crowed as he pulled back the flap. I was first hit by the lack of malodorous fumes, and second by the sight of a lone mummified mallard, sequestered at the bottom of the vast box.

We both speculated on this once majestic bird’s unseemly fate, and it was with humor and cheer that my handy-dandy service guy departed. I tried to picture this beautiful bird flying through the air, perhaps suffering a fatal heart attack and falling into our chimney. Or perhaps in the throes of old age, stopping up there to rest and just keeling over, leaving friends and family to wonder at his whereabouts. It was obvious from its condition that it had been there for a very, very long time.

Are you thinking this is the conclusion? Well think again. I was, and suddenly the scenario hit me like a kilo of marshmallows. A quick inspection confirmed that the bird had indeed been shot, and a knowing rose swiftly and surely from the depths of my being.

I thought back, to a past, foolish fling: Rich with titillating energy, safe in its lack of expectations, a time of naïve pleasure. It was a bit of a memory that could have had a happy ending; one of life’s lessons that is served to you unexpectedly on a silver platter. A reminder that there is usually a price tag attached to the whole shebang.

He was a handsome, lusty fellow, and a bit of a drunkard. He perceived himself a great sportsman, and though his ability to kill could not be argued with, his ethics could. The lustiness had run its course. The drunkenness had not, alas. Alas. And handsome is, as handsome does, in the eye of the beholder.

Hiring a roofer should probably not be based on friendship, nor how his buttocks will appeal as he kneels above, framed by sky and treetops. A charming French smile, kissed with beer, seduced my sensibilities. “Don’t worry darlin’…” was his smooth reply to my queries and concerns. What a ninny I was.

Have you ever seen a roof full of men clutching cans of beer, swaying with the breeze? Scary. Have you ever seen a roof done by men, clutched by beer? Not a pretty sight. The job staggered to a halt, bitter words shattering any vestige of friendship. I gritted my teeth as he was paid for a job poorly done. Gritted my soul as I tried to absolve my rambling roof.

Fast forward through the year, a year in which I kept my eyes on the ground. I had reached a balance of forgiveness and detachment. Bygones were bygones, after all. Now i dredge from my reluctant memory the sound of their braggartly laughter, souped up on testosterone & Miller High Life as they headed for the pond. The muffled echoes of their shotguns reverberate still in my mind's ear, harmonizing with the distant sound of the noon whistle.

Standing in my kitchen, staring at that bedraggled mass of bones and feathers, I wasn’t nearly as floored by his act as I was by the fact that he had gotten the last word, so to speak. I bundled the innocent corpse into a smaller box. There was a childlike pleasure in winding gobs of tape around it. The typewriter keys clacked delightfully as I addressed the label. Indeed, the taste of the stamps was as sweet as the satisfaction I felt as I paid the neighbor boy a few bucks to ride his bike to the post box.