This Danny Prompt fella sure is a curious one. Not smart either. I remember quite a bit, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to remember my earliest memories of anything. Not sure what fondue has to do with memories either, so if it’s all right with everyone, I think I’ll just set down here in my Barcalounger for a minute.
I ever tell you about how I came upon this here Barcalounger? Found it in the trash two blocks down and one block over from the Legion. Scooped it up unto my back and carried it back home. Althea was never much fond of me lookin’ for Scoot’s Treasure–which is what we called grabbin’ the odd item out of the trash back then.
See, Scoot Kirby was what you might call “domestically challenged” today, but back then, we weren’t fussed to call him the town bum. He was also second in line for town drunk, just behind Whiskey McGee, but you can’t blame him for that. Who’s gonna be able to compete for town drunk against a man who’s Christian name is Whiskey? Unless you happen to meet a man named Rum Chestnut, you’re not going to find a bigger lush than Whiskey McGee. And any reasonable man should be able to go his whole life without meetin’ Rum Chestnut. Man has to go lookin’ for his kind of trouble.
So, when Althea saw me walkin’ up the walk carryin’ a Barcalounger on my head like a wicker basket on one of those ladies in the National Geography, she starts to shakin’ her head somethin’ fierce.
“Ain’t no way, no how, I’m going to let you bring that in here,” she told me.
“Just touch the leather,” I told her. Back then the hide on this here chair was as soft and smooth as snakeskin dipped in butter, and I told her as much. She told me what I could do with my snakeskin if I even thought about bringing any of Ol’ Scoot’s Treasure into the house.
Now if you’d have had the honor to have met my dear Althea, and if you had also had the pleasure to have met her while she was trying to stay cantankerous at me, then chances are good you would have also gotten to see ol’ Grampa unleash the Devil’s grin, and an angel’s two step.
I dropped that shiny Barcalounger on the lawn and danced up the front steps humming a little tune I was lucky enough to hear Deaf Hubert Johnston play at the ’46 Wilfred County Fair. I whisked Althea up into my arms and we danced a little jig like we were 17 again, ‘cept this time no one called us to leave room for the Holy Ghost. Couple of minutes of that and Althea was as flushed as a clogged hot water heater.
She told me I could keep the Barcalounger, but it’d have to stay out on the porch. Which was just fine by me. That’s where I had wanted it to begin with. A man deserves three things in this world, fresh air and comfortable sittin’.