Read Online Social Blunders by Tim Sandlin - Free Book Online

Women deserve consideration bordering on servitude, but bossy men piss me off.
    “I hope my father is the black halfback,” I said. “These white guys are turning out dips.”
    “All white guys turn out dips.”
    “Except me.”
    She blew air out her nose. “You got no room to brag.”
    ***
    I fixed myself an avocado-and-cream-cheese sandwich because it was well after noon and Gus wouldn’t make lunch for anyone who wasn’t home at noon on the dot. She was strict with mealtimes—breakfast at eight-thirty, lunch at noon, and supper at six—and I was careless when it came to clocks, so I often had to fix my own meals while my cook stood in the kitchen and glared at me.
    Growing up in the Manor House, we had a succession of fifteen or so cooks who represented the vast spectrum of female domestic help. Young, old, and indeterminate, white, black, and mixed vintage, the only thing they had in common was not one got along with Caspar and Lydia. A few managed hatred. The only cook I recall as standing out from the group was a red-haired Irish girl who bathed me when the other grown-ups weren’t home.
    “Where’s Shannon?” I asked.
    Gus sat across from me, reading the New York Times . I consider anyone not from New York City who reads the New York Times ostentatious. Gus and I argue about it weekly.
    “Her and Eugene drove up the Blue Ridges to buy a pumpkin.”
    “Long way to go for vegetables.”
    “What difference it make to them. They’re young.”
    I can remember being young enough to drive 130 miles, one way, for an ice-cream cone. Maurey and I did that fairly regularly with Shannon back in high school.
    “What’d they want with a pumpkin?”
    She lowered her paper and gave me the you-idiot look. “Halloween. The one night white folks believe in magic.”
    “Do you believe in magic, Gus?”
    She went back to reading the paper. “Says here porpoises can open those little plastic bags in produce sections at the grocery market. If so, they’re smarter than me.”
    “I saw a boy in a space-man suit today. I wondered why he was dressed like that.”
    Gus turned the page. “The tramp called on the telephone.”
    “Is Wanda coming home?”
    “You fool.”
    “What’d she want, then?”
    “Money.”
    “She can’t have any. What did you tell her?”
    “I couldn’t lie. I told her you was comatose.”
    ***
    When a male says Now , my tendency is to slow down. I suppose I inherited the trait from Lydia. She’s the oldest person I ever met who still falls for the child psychology trick where you say “Don’t do such-and-so” when you really want her to do such-and-so. Lydia would jump off a cliff if a man in authority told her not to.
    First, I got together a six-pack of canned Dr Peppers, four clamps, and three clothes hangers. I poured the Dr Pepper on the lawn, straightened the hangers, and pulled the busted muffler out of my trunk. Hank Elkrunner taught me this trick. You cut the cans into pipe joints, rig up the muffler with the wire hangers, clamp it all down, and hit the road. Sometimes, I’m almost grateful to Caspar for banishing us to Wyoming. Rural competency comes in handy on Sunday afternoons when you can’t solve a problem by throwing cash at it.
    After more or less fixing the muffler situation, I drove to a flower shop and ordered flowers for all the women I liked but didn’t want to sleep with—six arrangements for the three women who run Callahan Magic Carts, and Gus, Shannon, and Lydia. I sent them rubrum lilies and hydrangea, tulips and gladiolus. Basically cleaned out the place of everything with big blossoms.
    I couldn’t decide on Maurey. A big part of why our next-of-kin-type relationship works so well is because we got the disgusting things over with early and now we can be open and above sexual tension. That’s what she thinks anyway.
    Me, I don’t know. Most of the time, I buy the buddies deal, and I would never hint at thoughts of lustful affection on my part, but every