Dying Alone (In the Arms of my Cellmate)
Some people believe we have only seven chances to find someone and not die alone. And if that's true then I'm so afraid I just wasted my seventh when I shot the girl who sorts the mail.
Her name was Sara. Her hair was long and brown. She worked in the basement of my building and her job was to sort the mail. She sang as she worked; sang as she sorted the mail. She put the mail into bins according to company and floor, and she never made a mistake.
I think Sara loved me. I would go to her sorting room every day to pick up the mail for my floor, and she'd smile as she handed the bin and whisper that she loved me. But I pretended I didn't hear. I was a raging fool you see.
Then one day, not long ago, I was having a bad day and when she smiled at me I shot her.
Fortunately the wound wasn't fatal, but it was certainly more than sorry could fix. I immediately fell in love with her when I saw how cute she was angry. But it was too late and she pressed charges with all the indignant fury of a woman rejected then shot.
When the judge tattooed "you'll die alone" across my wicked heart with his gavel, Sara laughed and clapped her hands to the rhythm of justice served.
If a power-lifting cellmate who calls himself "Uncle Savagefist" is the answer to the question: "Who is ever going to love me now?" Then that's a question you'll wish you hadn't asked, and everything is most decidedly not going to be all right.
And so everything is most decidedly not going to be all right. Goodnight Sara, wherever you are. Goodnight fury. Goodnight love. Goodnight Uncle Savagefist.
posted by Latigo Flint @ 11:42 PM
6 comments
6 Comments:
That's pretty dern sad Latigo, though its hard to sympathise when you shot Sara rather than Brian in accounting who always calls you 'a squinty eyed waste of space'.
However I'm hardly one to talk as you couldn't count the number of girls I've loved and shot without taking your shoes and socks off...
- Mr Winston
Great story, seems vaguely familiar, you've shot beloved's before haven't you? I wrote a blues song
"lonely man
all his life
serves him right
he shot his wife
he's got no body
to iron his shirts
and his old chat up line
no longer works
when he comes home at night
creeping up the stairs
he needn't tip toe so
'cos nobody cares"
I got the gift from Olga and often my songs are prophesies.
Did you shoot your wife???
"Some people believe we have but seven chances to find someone and not die alone."
It's a common mistake, Latigo, sweetie-pie. But the old soothsayer who first said it had a cold at the time. And a speech impediment and he didn't have his teeth in. So when the sooth-secretary (his wife, also getting on a bit) wrote it down she got it wrong and the apocryphal version of the sooth you cited passed down through the centuries.
What he really meant to say (according to reliable witnesses at his philosophical mead-parties) was "We have way, WAY more than seven chances to find someone and not die alone" Then he mumbled something about not believing any superstitious hooey like that anyway. Then he composed "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" and went for his lunch, and, being as short-sighted as they were, neither sooth-sayer nor wife noticed their error.
"Somewhere Over The Rainbow" was originally intended to be "Somewhere In Des Moines Area".
"When the judge tattooed "you'll die alone" across my wicked heart with his gavel, Sara laughed and clapped her hands to the rhythm of justice served."
That sentence is a bloody marvel. You do have a way with you, Latigo.
Not for nothing, Latigo Flint, but that gun seems to get you in a lot of trouble.
Maybe you should hang up your holster and carry a can of mace like that "Dogg" fella does.
Ah, you're back! For most of the day your comment box has beaten me off with a stick.
I've got the splinters to prove it, smudgy cheeks and a scratch across my nose which is, of course, not unsexy; this being so close to Hollywood and all, I've learnt how to be wounded only very attractively.
That second paragraph is nothing short of perfection Mr. Winston. I burst into spontaneous applause--I promise you I did.
Show me a cowboy who hasn't shot beloveds Helga, and I'll show you a man who isn't really a cowboy. Your blues song is very, very good of course. And now I love you even more than I did before.
Magnificent Sam, you problem child bride you. Yeah, I seem to recall that fuzzy-brained old soothsayer. But you're wrong--the dictation error was actually right, his intent incorrect. And a million lonely drunks, seven chances squandered, are the proof.
You askin' me to unbuckle LBB?!!! You best practice your winces if you're gonna ask a gunslinger to do such a thing.
I'm not Blogger.com's system admin Sam, I just type here. (Yes--sexy wounds and sunshine. God bless LA.)
Too good Talulah. There are layers there I could spend a lifetime appreciating. Damn but if I don’t want to be a roo-shooter now. What’s the bounty up to these days?
On a not entirely unrelated subject--I stood up and cheered when Dundee made the carcass of that roo shoot back. (Of course, I was only nine at the time--and wept bitterly when I realized that the roo was still going to be dead.)
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