by Purely Philly…
I was down in the basement yesterday; that’s when I found him: my little friend from the 17th century.
I just bought a home in the Beacon Hill district of Boston. It’s one of those old houses that dates back before even America itself. When I went down to the basement to clear out all the cobwebs, that’s when I found him. He was just lying there in an old steamer trunk, this little pilgrim-looking guy complete with silly hat, big belt buckle, and knickers. Needless to say, I had a hard time waking him up.
Several pots of coffee later, I had him on my living room couch and he was beginning to come to.
“Good morrow,” he said. That’s how pilgrims talked way back when, all funny-like.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Let the Lord bless thee and keep thee,” he said.
“Ditto,” I said.
“Does thou hav’est any pottage?” he asked. Pottage? It took a moment for me to realize that he was asking for food. Boy, was he ever hungry. He ate almost everything in the house.
“Does thou know’est Sir William Blaxton?” he asked. I told him I did not.
I had so many questions for him. I’m sure he had a few for me, too.
I wanted to ask him what it’s like to live in a time when food was fresh. When dinner was healthy, not infused with hormones, antibiotics, and other harmful chemicals. I wanted to ask him what it’s like to breath fresh air, drink clean water, and live in a society before the whole world had gone completely mad.
I wanted to ask him what it’s like to live in a world without the fear of global warming, terrorism, or nuclear annihilation; but of course, I knew he wouldn’t have any idea what I was talking about. I had so many questions, but it was late and I needed my beauty sleep. My questions were four hundred years in the making; they could wait at least one more night.
I set him up right there on the couch, laid out some clean breeches for him (that’s what he called his pants), and lit up the hearth (fireplace). He was so cute, I decided to keep him.
In the morning, I came into the living room to find he was gone. Gone? But where could he go? The TV was on. It was tuned in to the Kardashians. After looking at the channel history, I saw he’d ordered at least a dozen pornos. Pornos? Oh, sweet Jesus. What had I done now?
I got dressed and headed out to find him. Little did I know, he’d left a trail of bread crumbs a mile wide.
My first stop was Leo’s Tavern. There was a police car outside and Leo was standing there with a bloody nose. When I asked Leo what happened, he told me some little pilgrim-looking fucker had come into the bar chugging every beer he could get his hands on.
“When it came time to settle his tab,” said Leo, “he started speaking in gibberish, saying something about money and booze and the devil, throwing around Pray pardon me and Fare thee well like they were going out of style. Then, he punched me in the nose.”
“I see,” I said.
“Why?” said Leo, “Do you know him?”
I told him I did not, which was, and was not true.
My next stop was the local convenience store, the Sack-o’-Suds. I could see Lakshit, the Pakistani owner, standing there yelling. When I asked him what happened, he told me this little man with a big belt-buckle hat came in and tore through the candy and snack-cakes sections like a striped hyena. Great, now I was not only chasing a four-hundred-year-old pilgrim, he was drunk and all hopped up on sugar too.
When I came to the end of the road, I knew exactly where my little friend from the 17th century had gone. Right there at the end of the road was the strip bar, The Dancing Vagina. I didn’t need anyone standing outside, yelling, to tell me where my little friend was now.
When I got inside, all hell had broken loose. My little friend was bouncing off the walls, swinging from the stripper’s pole, and humping every piece of ass he could get his hands on. He was like some kind of super ball, and no one could get a firm grip on him.
I thought for a moment: I guess I wasn’t going to get answers to any of my questions, like what it was like to live in a time before television, talk radio, and toxic waste. A time before smart phones, when people still treated people like real human beings, when they used to have relationships, even talk to one another.
Oh well, I thought, just before jumping into the mix. That little mother fucker was harder to hold onto than a greased weasel. He bit my leg. Peed on me, too.
Fucking puritans. Still, he wasn’t nearly as bad as the leprechaun I found last summer. Why do you think I moved across the Charles, anyway? Damn leprechauns. They’ve practically taken over Cambridge.
About the Author
Philip Loyd loves fat chicks and cheap beer, though not necessarily in that order. His first novel, You Lucky Bastard, is represented by New York Literary Agent Jan Kardys. Loyd lives in Dumbass, Texas. Find out more about Loyd at http://PhilipLoyd.com
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