Southern Comfort, My Old Friend

Boo meowed "Yes" and then eased himself off the chair and onto the floor  He somehow had mastered this laid back move that was somewhere between a slid and a jump.  But Boo was that kind of cat, cool and smooth, with an attitude between knowing-where-its-at and not-caring-all-that-much-about-much-of-anything, that is except his Purina Chow, a saucer of milk, and a scratch behind the ears in the mellow times.

"Mail call."  I suppose like Boo I am a creature of habit.  Every time I see the mail that had been slipped through the mail slot each day, I proclaim, "Mail call."  I guess I say these stupid things to Boo and me  to take the edge of the lonely I've been living with these past seven years since Margo left me.  Margo, my first wife and if my plans work out, my last wife. 

Some bills, last payment on the Ford, a postcard from the recently retired Sergeant Donahue, now living in sunny Florida and wishing I was there.  That's it.   I threw them all on the kitchen counter, right beside my Friar Tuck cookie jar.  I lifted the lid.  No cookies.  "That's sad," I thought, "a cookie jar with no cookies.  I worry I live my life like that."

By this time, Boo had started his ritual for hurrying up his dinner, rubbing round and round, in and through my legs.  "Alright, Boo.  Lighten up." 

After getting dinner for Boo, I reached up and opened the cupboard door that is tucked away above the old Frigidaire.  Here was the residence of sweet lady friend, Southern Comfort.  I started going out nightly with this lady while on a venture to New Orleans.  A Cajun fellow named LeBlanc gave me a case to settle a little wager.  And ever since, I have had Angelo, the bartender down at the Blue Moon Lounge, stocking me with a supply.  

On the counter, I always kept four bourbon glasses, usually one of them was clean enough.  But first, I opened the freezer and pulled out an ice tray and cracked out some cubes.  Clink, clink, clink, clink.  Always four cubes.  Poured a glassful and made my way to my chair, carrying the bottle with me.

"Ahhh."  This worn out chair always felt like good living ought to feel.  Not much to life at home.  I sit.  I drink.  I talk to Boo.  And then I fall sleep, sometimes in my chair and sometimes I would make it to my single bed in my bedroom with the pale green walls and white curtains always closed over the double wide windows. 

But tonight I thought I'd just sip and think.  And tonight I'd think about Miss Yellow Roses and how sad I was that she died before she ever got to know me.

With the thought of Miss Yellow Roses, I remembered the souvenir I snatched from her and as I searched my pocket for it, I came upon that card.

A business card from Keller and Brown, Attorneys-at-Law.  rather high-end attorneys with their very own building down in the heart of the financial district.  On the back of the card in pretty fair handwriting, a note.  "Nine o'clock sharp.  Ambassador lobby.  I've got good news."

"Well, tomorrow's agenda is pretty well set," I thought.  Transferred the card to my inside coat pocket, poured another glass of Comfort then spent the rest of the night sniffing on that yellow rose.

I made it to bed that night.  And so did Boo.


The End

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