The Elevator Ride Heard ‘Round the World
Guess y’all heard about the elevator ride from hell. It was all over the news. Beyonce had to apologize for hubby Jay Z and little sis Solange having a big whoop-de-doo in an elevator. Always helps a bigtime celeb’s image when she has to eat some crow.
Now I suppose you’re expecting a little humble pie from Uncle Bardie too. Seems two of my characters, Abel and Mabel, were not happy at the ball the three of us attended at The Fancy-Dancy Hotel. Mabel did not like the comments made by Fashion Bigwig, Fifi Woo-woo ‘Nanas. Something ’bout Mabel’s neckline being a little too high and her skirt hanging a little too on the low scale. Now Fifi with her puppy dog eyes and fou-fou hairdo, dyed all purple and green, is not one who should be making comments on fashion. Yet all the celebs bow to her expertise as the maven of the fashion world.
Abel and I managed to get Mabel into the elevator before she could light into Fifi and beat the bananas out of her. As we were heading toward ground level, Mabel managed an old kickaroo on Abel right in his cojones. I grabbed her by the arms and Abel, in unbelievable pain I might add, picked her up by the feet. Then we sneaked her out the back way to the parking garage. All of this was taped and the hotel released it to The Snooty Hooty Network and their show, We’ve Got the Goods.
So please forgive us, Mabel and Abel and me. We will try in the future not to make royal asses out of ourselves in an elevator. And I promise you, if any character of mine embarrasses me again, they are going to the woodshed. I guarantee.
Are you a doctor?
I am sitting in the examining room, waiting on the doctor to come in and tell me what I have. He walks in just like he’s God, or a reasonable facsimile. Takes a good look at my paperwork on the clipboard, then looks up at me. “I see you have gallstones,” he says.
“Are you sure?” I asked, really worried.
“That’s what it says here,” the doc shows me the clipboard.
“Well, that’s the information I gave the nurse,” I say. “That I thought I have gallstones.”
“But it’s here on your chart. It must be true,” he says to me. “These charts never lie.”
I am getting frustrated. “I told your nurse that I have all the symptoms. But I never claimed that I had gallstones.”
“Look,” he says, then asks, “are you a doctor?”
“Then why are you putting stuff on your chart. That’s my job.”
“I’m not putting stuff on my chart,” me, even more frustrated. “Your nurse did.”
Then he hits me with, “I don’t have a nurse.”
“But the woman who took down my information.”
“You mean my receptionist? She’s not a nurse. I keep her here for entertainment purposes.” He winks.
“All I know is that I have the symptoms for gallstones.”
“Of course you do,” he says. “It says so right here on your chart.”
“Well, that’s what the internet says.”
“Is the internet a doctor?” he asks.
Before you can say two shakes, I’m getting the hell out of there. This guy is crazy. But I’m not saying so. He might ask me if I am a psychiatrist.
Two suits show up at my front door. They show me their badges. They are from a government agency. I am not free to say which agency ’cause I don’t want them coming back again.
Tall suit says, “Mr. So-So, we have some questions for you.”
I say, “I’m not Mr. So-So. My name is Dudley Whipass.”
“Then we need to see Mr. So-So.” short suit says.
“He’s not here. He hasn’t lived here for ten years. He’s my wife’s brother and he only stayed here for two weeks ten years ago. Then he moved out. Moved all the way across country for all I know.”
“His mail comes to this address, does it not?”
“Yes. He put in address change with the post office when he left. But we still get some of his mail. We’ve got a closet full of it just waiting for him to pick it up.”
Tall suit reveals, “We googled his name. Google says he lives here with a Ms. Charlene Whipass. No Dudley is mentioned at this address. So where is Mr. So-So. If we need to, we’ll get a search warrant.”
Now I own the house. My name is on the deed with Charlene. Google doesn’t show that I live in the same house as Charlene. I say, knowing it’s no use to refuse these guys, “Well, come right in. If Google says it, it must be true.”
I am watching the national news.
Anchor Man says, “Our next report is from Perky Weather Girl.”
A woman appears, wearing a yellow rain suit. Rain is pouring hard wherever she is. “Hey, Bob, we’re getting bad storms here.” It’s coming down so hard it looks like it’s raining cats and dogs. There are even growls and meows in the background.
Bob says, “That bad, huh?”
“Yes,” Perky says, “I just had my hair done, and would you believe?” She pulls the hood off her head. Her hair is a mess.
“It looks real bad,” Bob comments. “An umbrellas won’t help?”
“No. Can you believe it? This was a $300 do.”
“I’m sure the viewers really sympathize.” Bob turns to look at the audience out in television land. “You do sympathize, Audience, don’t you? Of course you do.” Then he’s back to Perky.
She is crying. “I had to wait three months to get an appointment with Mr. Dazzle.”
“I feel your pain. But we’ve got to leave you now.”
She wipes the water and the tears from her face. “Okay.”
“Our next story,” Bob says to his audience, “the almonds are striking at the Nutso Candy Factory in Nutso, Florida. They’re wanting a pay raise. Say they can’t support a family on the peanuts that Nutso is paying them.”