Chase Banter [02] Marching to a Different Accordion Read Free Page A

A character sketch to be dreamed of—a gift from on high. Alma raised her eyebrows as if sensing Chase’s brainwave patterns. “I can’t help myself.”
    “So how did it happen, my dear?” Alma asked gently.
    Chase hurriedly put the trash can on the side of the garage where she had found it and scurried back so as not to miss any of the story.
    “It’s the Republicans—those damn miscreants.”
    “What did they do?” Chase said, wondering how a political party could facilitate the divorce of two elderly people and the destruction of a dinner set.
    “Why that bastard, my husband, soon to be ex-husband, is a Republican and it’s his fault and you know what he did?”
    “No, Evelyn, we don’t,” Alma said.
    “I had the audacity to ask the bastard, that would be Eugene, to go out to the mailbox and post a letter—a letter to my poor sister. She’s married to a worthless, shifty, ‘maybe I’ll get a job when one comes along that pays six figures…’ Six figures, my ass. I wouldn’t pay that low-life six cents. I send my sister, her name is Marge, encouragement. I go to Smith’s and steal quotes from the damn Hallmark cards. Sis thinks I’m a literary genius. I send her checks. Small amounts, mind you, I’ve got to squeeze it out of Mr. Tightwad, which I do by watering down his soup. He has soup every day, every damn day. I put in twice as much water as is required and he has one can for two days and the stupid bastard doesn’t even notice. Ha!”
    Chase was mesmerized. Mrs. Givens’ tirades didn’t exactly make sense or follow proper semantics but they were priceless. She wondered if she’d ever get to this stage of convoluted sentence structure.
    Alma looked over her shoulder as Bo’s bright green Pacer pulled up in her drive. When he got out she motioned him to go in the house. He nodded.
    Good going, Chase thought. Mrs. Givens wouldn’t take kindly to a set of balls coming over right now. Bo went inside before Mrs. Givens could see him.
    “As I was saying, the Republicans did it. Mr. Pompous Ass thinks all the country’s woes are the Democrats’ fault. I say now how can that be when the Bushies, that’s what I call them, they’re just like a bunch of Moonies, exchanging those silly orange sheets for a blue blazer and a red-striped tie, have had their filthy greedy paws on the purse strings and the deregulation schemes for eight fucking years.”
    Alma and Chase both nodded. They were Democrats. It wasn’t like they didn’t know that both sides were a bunch of crooks, but Democrats seemed less likely to round up dissidents and put them in camps than the talk-radio-listening Republican freaks. Besides it was sort of assumed that most creative people were Democrats. Chase wasn’t excited about being a donkey. It didn’t seem a good choice for a mascot—an armadillo would be better perhaps, so the NRA would have more difficulty killing it.
    “So that was it?” Alma asked.
    “The straw that broke the camel’s back. He won’t speak to me and my kids don’t speak to me either but that’s been going on for a couple of years. I’m kind of used to it, but children really should respect their elders.” She pointed a bony, horribly gnarled finger at Chase. “Do you respect your elders?”
    “Right down to word choice,” Chase replied, fascinated with the finger. How did she even write a check with a forefinger like that?
    “Good.”
    “Why don’t your kids speak to you?” Chase asked. Alma gave her an almost imperceptible headshake. Chase knew what it meant, but she couldn’t help herself. She just wanted one more story.
    “Because I won’t go to the doctor.”
    “Why not?” Alma asked.
    Ha! Chase thought, she’s just as engrossed as I am. Chase couldn’t believe Alma had never told her about Mrs. Givens. She was fabulous.
    “They’re trying to kill me—all of them, the doctors, the specialists and my ungrateful children and to think, I lay in agony thrusting those little