Woody Evans

Pashtun Probs

I Get You, Hoss

I walked in on your plan to raze all the bases.  I’m the guy who stopped you, and this sequence of pink Post-It Notes will explain to you.  So, get ready.


I was trip­ping over my feet on some heavy anal­gesic, search­ing for a couch.  The hall­way just went on and on, light and tile, white and white.  My girl had gone miss­ing.  The third day, now, and her cloy­ing moth­er claimed she was “on a retreat” but would give me no more details.


I might have drunk up that Dr. Tichenor’s I found on your love seat.  Dark gray room with such dim flu­o­res­cents.  And, there, a dog­gy quilt.  I dropped into it, dropped off to sleep, bot­tle not open.


Woke to your New Age music on con­stant repeat, disc skip­ping on a yodel.  I sat up, but heard some scuf­fling.  I hun­kered back down, cov­ered my head.  The attached kitch­enette was the site of the prob­lem.  A sud­den clat­ter of knives in the sink.  The cussing start­ed with a  Brahui accent, but got into some Zabuli bad words.


They left, I climbed out of my hide.  I lum­bered around and found the cof­fee pot, rinsed it.  There: there was the plan on the place mat, jel­ly-edged.  Just like that, man.


I read the whole white paper, skimmed the schemat­ics.  Your plan was so Lex Luthor.  I want­ed to frame it, point a halo­gen at it, burn some incense to it.  But I rec­og­nized the seri­ous­ness.  Had to get it to brass.  Quick I went!


Now you may be in the brig.  If it was me decid­ing, I would have lever­aged you back­wards into some kind of jir­ga.  Got a well dug, got a school.  But you may just be in the brig for a while.


I’m lay­ing on that love seat again, writ­ing these out.  Hand aches.  Ear aches, too.  I grind my teeth.


I called back for my girl again.  I knew I had some kind of com­men­da­tion com­ing, so I went ahead and told her moth­er that I was a rec­og­nized hero, and that her daugh­ter ought to call me the hell back.  But, “She’s on retreat, I told you.”  I told her to tell her daugh­ter to get off the yoga mat and pick up the fuck­ing phone.  Said I’d be meet­ing the Vice President next (over please) month.


You will laugh, ha ha, but it worked.  She’s been all over the face­books with me, now, telling me how she’ll make my hero­ic body feel (once we’re mar­ried, of course).


Sucks that you wrote up an evil plan.  But you need to know that some­thing good and true came from all the evil, and that what­ev­er hap­pens to you, some­body out there is going to learn from it for the Greater Good and that some lit­tle girl might one day won’t get beat­en by her old-man hus­band now.  She won’t have to steep his tea for exact­ly 90 sec­onds or get (over) scald­ed.  She might have a chance at Real Love.  So I get “you” (your self-sab­o­tag­ing-self that hopes for a Free Country one day, I mean).


I got­ta go, but I get you.


Woody Evans has writ­ten for Juked, Rain Taxi Review, Boing Boing, TRNSFR, Public Scrutiny, 971 Menu, Library Journal, American Libraries, Searcher, Acceler8or, & oth­ers. He teach­es his boy to dune walk on weekends.