Squirrel Pie
By Jack Elliott
© Copyright
Since real men don’t shop, I was killing time while my wife, The Pearl of the Orient, selected a new bathing suit. There were several thousand in her size range. It promised to be a long process.
As I wandered the houseware aisles heading for a gander at the new giant flat-screen TVs, another shopper on a mission hurried past. Abruptly, 20 yards in front of me at the frying pan display, she stopped and began a detailed inspection of the wares. With a pan in each hand, she tested the heft, and inspected the bottom of each. A real study in concentration.
As I sauntered past, I glanced at her. We made eye contact, so I had to do the socially correct thing and speak.
“You know, neither one of those is heavy enough to kill him with one whack,” I opined, while trying unsuccessfully to suppress a smirk.
Without hesitation she shot back, “That’s okay. I don’t mind hitting him twice.”
I moved out of range. Nothing more dangerous than a decisive female.
Back in Drizzle Creek, while relating the incident over coffee at the Bakery some days later, Pickle and the Runt, exchanged strange glances. A modicum of prodding managed to pry out the story.
It seems while on one of their regular fishing trips, while unstowing the gear for a shore lunch, Pickle turned around unexpectedly and caught The Runt across the top of the head with the cast iron frying pan.
It is unclear how long The Runt was laid out on the island or if there were any repercussions. But it couldn’t have been too serious as they are still fishing buddies.
As he picked up another piece of toast slathered with peanut butter, The Runt, however, gingerly explored his scalp with his left hand and commented, “No physical scars, just emotional ones.”
