Runner-up in the 2nd Annual Geist Literal Literary Postcard Story Contest.
When your gran was twenty—wouldn’t you know—I had two fellows on the go. I lived in a small town in them days. Every Tom, Dick and Henry knew which old gals were still blessed with the curse and which old buggers could get ’er up, so two was a juggle, I grant you. But them two boys—I thought they were the bee’s knees! I kept ’em both strung out like knickers on the clothesline; sooner or later I’d make my mind up, but for the meantime I meant to have a nip of fun.
Rupert and Charlie were their names— how many times did I nearly call out the wrong one? All us girls were crackers over Rupert. It weren’t hard to figure why—he were one right handsome rascal, with this flamin’ bush of red hair and a way with words that could butter up the prickliest heart. He wanted to be a politician or actor, and he’d’a been good at either.
Now Charlie worked at the mill. He weren’t much for talk but he had a strong way about him. I liked him ’cause he tasted like licorice and salt pork.
Well, one night Rupert shows up in his Studebaker, and don’t his eyes nearly pop out when he gets a gander at my red number? See, I’d swiped this dress from my big sister’s closet that showed off my knockers. So Ruppie finally gets his tongue back and we’re off to the Golden Buffalo. And we’re kicking up our heels, Kitty Wells on the juke, but we aren’t there ten minutes and . . . trouble! I’m heading back from the Ladies’ toward the bar, and weren’t Charlie sitting there, but one stool apart from Rupert!
So I got to say something, ’cause I couldn’t get out of it, see. If I was to say to Charlie, this here’s my cousin Rupert, old Ruppie’d get a mite cross, and vice versa. So I just sits between ’em and says, real sweet, well, boys, which one of youse bastards’ll fetch me a whisky? Wouldn’t it be Charlie who didn’t flinch, and says, barkeep, you’d better bring this young lady a drink, she’s worked her up an awful thirst. So I gives him a big fat wink and says, well, ain’t you just the feller for me. And ever since, I’ve been stuck on your granddad like chewing gum to the bottom of a gumboot. And Ruppie? He marches out, sour as Ivy’s lemonade, and hitches up, fast as you please, with Annie Hamilton, who’s pretty as anything but ain’t had a full thought in her head since the day she were born.
Oh, but weren’t I brash in them days, eh? When a gal gets ripe in the years, she thinks, by gravy, I’ve three grown boys—I can’t be behaving like a lunatic all the time, flashing my bazoomies and such.
(Well perhaps now and again, just ’cause I can.)