A PICKLE TO THE PREFRONTAL
“I’m sorry, I just didn’t think the joke was that funny”
“Well you just have no culture then, Addison” were the last words Calvin said to me before he hit me over the head with a footlong zucchini. The green blackjack split in two as did the bond between my childhood best friend and I.
I’ve told him before, you can’t just make jokes about somebody’s cat dying, especially with Emily Jackson in the room. Her cat passed away over the weekend and it made the local headlines. Feline Falls from Firehouse, Doesn’t Land on Feet. What cruel fate. I still have the silhouette of Pumpy, her cat, engrained in my memory. I’ll miss his blood blue eyes.
What I will not miss is that self-centered Calvin and his claims about my culture. To think I allowed such a toxic person to gain proximity to me. Our friendship began back in fourth grade when we were the only two test subjects in the whole asylum naive enough to take on trombone lessons. Only a fool would choose to play the biggest instrument out of the options they were cataloguing to us. If I were smart, I would have chosen to play clarinet. Maybe then I would become friends with the Herring twins that live down the road. On second thought, maybe not. I have never been a fan of the tunics they clad themselves in, always matching one another. Bastards.
Still, with all the schooling, I don’t remember a single note of trombone. I desire to never pick up the instrument of torture again. To even hear its’ long, rumpy sounding roars resonate my eardrums would send unwelcoming vibrations along my fragile frame. Such a sound could only ever remind me of time spent with Calvin. As would the taste of brass upon the lips.
I took my yo-yo out of my pocket and threw it towards the ground. My mind traveled away from yoing. So far, that I was surprised when it started to roll along its’ string back into my hand. I missed the return catch and the toy dangled itself out of reach and dragged along the sidewalk with my feet.
I rewound the string in order to let the toy roll again; this time with more attention devoted to the action at hand. Though still distracted by anger, I managed to tie knots in my toy. This is when it hit me like a pickle to the prefrontal. Whatever way you lace it, the string will be in a knot, or knots. Friendships are not forever, but neither is life. I thought back to his joke. The exhausted two-liner refried itself in my brain.
“What did the cat say with its’ last dying breath?”
I paused in my trek.
“Paws.”
POST A COMMENT
See Also
Want to read more news? Click here for a random article.