22
Mar
11

the life of old fezziwig (homage à m.g.)

old fezziwig didn’t mind the darkened refrigerator, not like the milk did. (oh the milk would whine & complain about how he doesn’t really look his best in the dark, that the light made his whiteness “just shine”,) but old fezziwig,  he’d just stand there with his carbonation percolating at the bottom of his molasses brown glass bottle (do glass & bottle automatically go together, i mean, can you have a bottle without glass?), all soldier straight, his mother’s warning words still ringing in his ears, “stand up straight, dear, or they’ll think you have something wrong with you.  never be afraid of who you are & standing straight & tall will tell people you mean business.”

but old fezziwig didn’t really care what people thought about him, whether it was business or not.  he’d stand there shoulder to hip with the other bottles, the chocolate boch (oh gurl, you know what i mean,) the winter pale ales (a bunch of ice queens, always talking among themselves, huddled in their designer labels & sporty pop-tops, brrr) & the oh-so-common boston lager (those southies, a tough bunch, just as soon kick you as let you drink them,) but old fezziwig, stoic & uncaring stood his ground, spending his day & occasionally his nights, waiting for a door to open & that long thin arm to reach in & grab him.

like tonight.  & suddenly he found himself sitting on the cutting board, top popped & few hard pulls on his lips, that satisfied sound of relaxation pervading the kitchen, lights blinking on & food (god, the food, impossible!), the food never shutting up, “oh, i’ve been cut too short! what is he thinking? that’s my best part that just got scraped into the garbage,” & “ooh, look at that lime, now that’s a slice, if you know what i mean” (a conspiratorial wink thrown old fezziwig’s way.)  but what did he care, after all, he was here for one reason:  to help the evening slow things down, let the thin arm talk with his companion (old fezziwig noticed that the other didn’t drink him,) & he could tell as the night wore on (just the one, always just the one) things just seemed to settle down, feathers floating, a sway from side-to-side & down to the softness of the sofa.

 

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© Robert Patrick, and Cultivar, 2008-2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts, photographs and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Robert Patrick and Cultivar with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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