In response to the Holiday Weekend prompt at Writingthe200.
Uncle Kazmo never paid for a meal in his life. Did he never eat out? Did he hold a position of influence or company paid charge card? Was he a revered man with many friends who insisted on picking up the tab? No, no, and most certainly no.
He had 365 fake id’s, one for every birth date that wasn’t his own, staggered in birth years to age him from 14 to 84, and a suitcase of hats, toupees and props lending credibility to his claims. A king of the complementary meal deal, he would drive 50 miles out of the way to take advantage of an offering. Vacations were planned around destinations abundant with free dining promotions.
Life with Uncle Kaz was no picnic. His dithering ways sent Aunt Dee to an early grave. No one knew she was allergic to shellfish until their holiday weekend spent in Oysterville.
‘Remember’, he coached Dee, as the server approached, check in hand, ‘We’ve been married 15 years today.’
‘Seems longer,’ were her last words before swelling up like a Macy’s balloon and expiring into a bowl of chowder while Kaz flashed a forged certificate and dickered over the charge for nuts.
In response to the Concert prompt at Writingthe200. More or less a follow up on last week’s piece with a slightly longer piece (unposted) in between.Think it works ok on it’s own. Here goes….
Despite the sheer ridiculousness of his sister Bea’s singing acapella renditions of the Monkees’ greatest hits to a room full of half deaf blue hairs accompanied by home care providers who schlepped them and all their life-extending apparatus to this big night out at the Chitty City Senior Center, Dan was unable to heckle to his heart’s content due to his constantly being on the verge of nodding off.
His best bud Devo kept elbowing big Dan in the ribs whenever he started to slump too far over in his uncomfy molded plastic chair.
‘Dude, stay awake,’ Devo muttered under his breath. ‘It’s probably the heat in here making you groggy. It’s like 90 degrees and you’re wearing that trench coat. Take that thing off.’
‘Can’t,’ muttered Dan in response, discreetly opening a flap of the floor length duster to reveal a peek of the polka dot and ruffled ensemble beneath.
‘What is that? Pajamas? Is there a costume party afterward? Are you supposed to be Pagliacci?’
‘Bea made me wear it.’
‘Since when do you let anyone make you do anything?’
‘She found my stash of air horns and twinkies and she’s holding them hostage.’
‘That explains it. Sure.’
In response to the Silence prompt at Writingthe200.
If there was one thing sorely missing in the house of Sanders it was silence on a Sunday. Such were the thoughts of Dan on his one day off from selling paper maps door to door that no one was buying.
But instead of silence his precious eardrums were being assaulted by crescendoing buzz-saws and weed-wackers of neighbors in all directions, pesky kids laughing until they puked at a some bouncer birthday party accompanied by mariachi music, yapping dogs excited about the prospect of wrapping their flapping jowls around chubby five-year-old legs making way to and from said party.
Add to this the miserable howl of older sister Bea practicing opera to the accompaniment of younger sister June hitting the wrong piano keys. His normal response to his sisters’ attempts at music was to heckle from the dining room while partaking in the snacks he kept hidden behind unused cleaning products, occasionally setting off an air horn, just for kicks.
But Dan was in no mood for such levity. His nerves were so racked by other people’s noise he couldn’t think. Instead he headed out the door to sell some maps. The sound of rejection would be a welcome reprieve.