A Trenchant Wit

September 15, 2024

“If your mama had as much sticking out of her as she had sticking into her, she’d be a porcupine.”

Alex was at his best when he was at his worst.

“Light travels faster than sound. That is why you seemed intelligent until you spoke.”

“If laughter is the best medicine, your face must be curing the world.”

Not all enjoyed his witty repartee.

“I am jealous of all of the people who have yet to meet you.”

“You look like something I would draw with my left hand, drunk.”

Alex wanted to be liked. He wanted to be the center of attention within his small circle of friends.

Every once in a while, Alex could hold his tongue. He could walk away, knowing he permitted a prime opportunity escape.

Every once in a while.

But not today at the local pub.

There, Alex encountered someone who did not wish to participate in Reindeer games. Alex (maybe, no wait, definitely) should have read the room and passed.

But he didn’t.

Alex was patient. He waited until the other patron did something worth a comment.

“You are so useless. I would unplug your life support to recharge my cell phone.”

Soon after, shots fired.

“By that I mean, the patron took the initiative and shot Alex. We all saw it. Alex had it coming.”

I told this to the police when they arrived. The patron laid his firearm on the table and finished his beer before turning himself in.

Alex lay bleeding on the floor. Eyes open. Shock on his face as if rigor mortis already set in.

My friends gathered to confer. We had to say something before they took Alex away.

I gave it my best shot.

“Roadhouse.”

The bar’s crickets came out in droves for the next few moments.

At least the beer was cold.

I'm tired

Tired of the things I could do so well

Tired of the things that made me happy, that made me swell

Tired of the issues that people bring every time they text

"You're in a crisis? Get a therapist, I hear they're the best!"

For these type of situations that you constantly bring to me

And waste my time with; look, I'm trying to be well

But you're making me sick with your false reactions and immature words

You don't understand honesty? Let me put it in words

I'm tired of criticism that's not constructive

I'm tired of comments that are so destructive

I'm exhausted when people say they'll be more honest

But the next day they sin like they're not even modest

I'm tired of having to wake up everyday to your comments

And wonder if I did wrong when I called you out

For the fake friend you are

I've had enough of your troubles and unnecessary issues

Leave me alone, and get out of my room

I'm trying to sleep.

“The tread that you take only serves insomuch as to awaken you from the stuff of dreams,” said the cohort on her left.

And he did seem to be dreaming, she noticed, with his closed eyes moving rapidly like the stinging flies that darted along the flowing river of song.

Nip, nip, nip, they bit as they impelled the rhythms of the beat that tried to repeat the melody and inspire the choral chords of the chorus longing in her ears.

Oh, how she longed to finish her sweet song. The one that told of the blue highways the width of two horse’s asses winding for miles and miles along the changing countryside and the muddy white vehicle the brothers drove to reach their unknown destination.

One brother sat in the driver’s seat clutching the steering wheel in one hand, right foot ready to brake from cruise control as he drove, using his free hand to crack open roasted, unsalted peanuts and toss the tasty legumes into his mouth, brewed yellow tea in the spill proof cup between his legs.

Although he did his best to dispose of his nut-munching detritus in a hard plastic container in the cup holder on the side, bits of broken shells and flakes of red nut skin surrounded him and settled into the car like Pig-Pen in the comic strip Peanuts by Charles Schulz.

The other brother did his best to laugh at the mess his elder sibling made and carefully sliced horseradish cheese onto a paper towel and prepped a bag of tart cherries for consumption by them both as Bob Dylan played on the stereo.

If she could only get the beat and the lyrics right, she knew her song would be a hit. The tale was such a classic, of two now retired brothers traveling cross-country to visit the remainder of their family back East where they had both been born, along thousands of miles of lanes and roads almost exactly the same width the ancient Romans had built over two millennia before.

How many roads must a man walk down before you call him a man?

How many seas must a white dove sail before she sleeps in the sand?

Yes, and how many times must the cannonballs fly before they’re forever banned?

The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind. The answer is blowin’ in the wind.

The thread by which she and her cohorts in the international songwriting seminar hung was a slender one involving both curiosity and creativity, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

She began humming the melody that had just come to her. Yes, that just might work.

we have never tried out this road

it was the melodies fault.

it was my throat's fault

it was it was it was it was it was

history.

my cup sits lonely on the counter

stronger tools for our precious tensions

watching me undress, now we're swapping clothes

words sounding familiar

we turn into a yes yes yes yes yes

music playing in the ca-are you watching us?

she is thinking something.

you're begging me not to skip over youuuuuuuu

you'll hear it from body language first.