You know, there for a while, I thought Hick might be stepping out on me.
After all, he would disappear for hour upon hour, leaving no information about where he was headed or when he would return. And then there were the three-hour trips to the barber shop for a haircut, when he hardly even has any hair. And those times he had to go to work on a Sunday morning to pick something up. And all those evenings he said he was spending over in the BARn.
Still, I didn't have hard evidence. He didn't come home smelling of perfume. No lipstick on his blue collar. That uniform supply company must be wizards at muddying up the water. Those phone calls from a woman turned out to be the lady in charge of the youth bowling league, and I assume the motel room he wanted me to reserve in Jefferson City for a Friday night and Saturday night in May is for himself and The Pony.
This week I thought I had him! The Pony pulled a letter out of EmBee addressed to Hick. It had a handwritten address, and was only to Hick, not to "and Mrs." or "The Family of." The return address was a last name and a street address, from a town near where Hick works. AHA!
But I didn't open it. It did not look like a bill. I would not want Hick opening my mail. So I laid it aside, by his banana area on the kitchen counter, where I dole out his cash allowance every Thursday. Hick walked right on by it when he came home.
"So...what's that letter you got?"
"Letter? I don't know. I saw it there."
"Well, I'm going to open it. It might be a bill."
"All right."
I carried it into the living room. Hick was not too invested in the contents. He grabbed the remote and clicked the TV off the local news and Seinfeld, which I had been switching between, to one of his car shows. I stuck my finger into the end, and ripped down the top with my finger. The suspense was palpable. I felt like Charlie Bucket opening a Wonka Bar, with Grandpa Joe and Grandma Josephine and Grandpa George and Grandma Georgina all leaning toward me in anticipation. I unfolded it. Handwritten. Addressed to Hick.
It was from a septic tank cleaning service.
Hmpf. Just goes to show: EVERYBODY knows Hick is full of crap.
Hey! I passed by a store today called "The Mediocre Feet Store." Perhaps their fees would be less than $3,764 a foot... Isn't full-of-crap Hick worth it?
ReplyDeleteI have a hunch Hick would not make a very good "player."
ReplyDeleteThis reminds me of the Jake at State Farm commercial. Are you going undercover when you retire?
ReplyDeleteHick is no Don Draper, and that's a good thing.
ReplyDeleteHee hee! Stepping out...or stepping in...?
ReplyDeleteI was just going to make a comment about Jake when I saw Linda's mention above. Either two great minds or too much television!
ReplyDeleteSioux,
ReplyDeleteI suppose he's worth The Mediocre Feet Store. He's gotta learn to barter.
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joeh,
You are correct. But The Good Feet Store thinks he's a good PAYer.
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Linda,
I am already deep undercover in the Blogger Protection Program. I might, however, come out from under the cover and start up my own private investigating firm. I'm pretty devious. I think it would be a good fit. As good a fit as $1000 inserts from The Good Feet Store, I'm certain.
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Stephen,
You are correct, sir. Hick is no Don Draper. One of the main pieces of evidence being that Hick wears underwear. Unlike that Hammy actor who plays Don Draper. Or so I've heard...and...um...seen.
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Tammy,
I see what you did there!
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Catalyst,
I will say it's two great minds. Because there is no such thing as too much television.