This is another one from the little town living the American life that Norman Rockwell inmotalized on his paintings.
When one talks about the "good old days" we are talking about those days when a homerun was commented for weeks and weeks and a basketball player didn't ever dream on millions.
But life offered real entertainment...
Close your eyes and get the “real America” picture of our neighborhood painted by Norman Rockwell, with blush on the chicks, little rascals climbing the trees and clothes lines because dryers are looked upon as a satanic devise to lose socks and where the washing machine is accepted a little mom’s helper.
We have an orderly and extremely off from the cement jungle that they call a city, we are one of those suburban towns where American Express don’t even advertise because we are no plastic folk, only the green paper we do trust.
You can say that we are the urban replicas of the renowned hillbilly’s.
But we love our town to death with all its faults and modern facilities, although we are forced to hear the blaring propaganda from the politicians promising the same thing every election, we consequently ignore them and no vote.
We got the government we deserved and ain’t complaining ‘bout it.
The best season to visit us are the summer, when sweltering temperatures press your butt down by the shadows and your whistle will be dry until you pour a cold Coors or if you are less selective a bathtub brew from Manuel’s finest.
I think I remember talking to you about Manuel, Marty and Joe, they are my buddies from a war we don’t care to remember, the only ones getting alive from there of our 180 strong Company.
In Summer we go to each houses in a kind of circling around mode, yours, mine, his…you get the drift.
Now, we should be four, but Manuel insisted in taking with him his protégée, “Little” Manuelito, a 6.4 giant carrying a odd 370 pounds with a defective attic up there on the thinking house, kind of slow but good natured if you didn’t go bugging Manuel, then, the bugger, would make acquaintance with an angry steamroller.
We maintain a clean neighborhood, with clean street, clean cat and dogs and no lose of any category around.
It was my turn to be the host of our informal little gathering, with a BBQ going at full throttle with hamburgers, sausages, sizzling tomatoes, filled paprika and marinated spare ribs and pork chops and…plenty of Coors of course!!!
We had our first laugh already after “Little” Manuelito tried to sit in one of them beach clap on chair with the comfy canvas, that chair died trying courageously to support Manuelito oversized butt, so he went an sat of the porch floor with his chubby legs with feet perilously dangling over mother’s peonies.
Life was good, and so was the good earned lazy-time.
We had one of those Summer storms a couple of days before with strong winds and plenty of water coming down, and strong enough to Willard, my next newly painted house neighbor, to have acquired a leak on his roof, which he diligently went up to repair to our approval, as we sat in the shadows munching everything that was medium rare done, sweating and groaning under the sun like a cat that had landed on a hot tin roof.
Benson, my opposite side neighbor was attending to the rest of his melons after the son’s “weed” on his pipe provoked the massacre of the green big head little invasion’s men and was on bail pending his appearance in Court, though he should had been given a commendation for curing the stutter of our hapless Deputy Sheriff.
With my missus gone with Joe’s own, to an only ladies Tupperware and lacy things party, loud burping and passing gas were not only allowed but also encouraged as a free speech expression of manly freedom.
No fancy napkins here, God gave you the back of the hands, didn’t He?
The only loud sound was the occasionally slamming to the BBQ lid after fishing yet another morsel replacing it with one from the marinade’s bowl.
Beer was good as the company but for Marty’s unspeakable old country black deformed cigars which could hold all the insects of the world away from us forever, sadly, we couldn’t run fast enough from the fumes.
“Little” Manuelito, being the nearest one to the grill had apparently filled his huge belly and drank half a dozen three pints coke, you don give beer to him for the same reason you don’t give a loaded revolver to a monkey.
He was leaning on one of the wooden post, gently snoring with the quality of a innocent cherub too big to fly.
Joe had called quits long before, after downing two bottles of Barolo by himself, “meat is for wine” he would say, “beer is for pissing on the neighbors tomatoes”
Joe was all arms and legs relaxed like jell-O, with his head thrown back sleeping it with a wide mouth in no danger to catch anything by the grace of Marty’s protective smoke.
Manuel, a big, brown skinned mean ex-Marine had his dental works going at a furious pace pushing everything down with big slugs of beer and stuffing is gargantuan mouth with yet another load.
Now and then he would roll his eyes back showing the whites in a gesture of deep satisfaction giving it the company of a complimentary grunt.
Marty and me just were occupied of polishing the beer from the cooler and smiling idiotically at each other like we were doing something funny.
Around us the air was too hot even for the flies to come and be swat with a rolled newspaper, we ain’t fancy your hear!
Just old Willard up the roof with selected words towards everything, everyone and the weatherman, and Benson caressing his melons like he was on an election politician-handling babies, he would from time to time send a baleful glance of disapproval our way.
Then I saw an unidentifiable lose dog way back by the tree’s outer line, maybe hungry and attracted by the BBQ inviting as you go meal on charcoals.
Lose? I said lose? We ain’t no lose nuthin’ here neighborhood and my hand went looking for the pump shotgun behind my rocking chair which my missus had removed wisely weighing it against how many beers we had.
Marty almost swallowed his cigar thinking I was mad a something he did…or didn’t and was almost to hit the deck when he saw that I wasn’t looking at him.
He followed my sight and saw the lose mongrel trying to trot like he wasn’t aware of us, but we knew, yesss sir! we knew!!
Knew what? you ask?…beats me.
The dog was past the end of my lot and just entering Willard’s when the black cat, maybe daydreaming because of the heat, was coming out the forest after chasing mice and was totally unaware of the approaching mutt.
The dog did what dogs do, even if he was skinny as a sparerib, he growled like he thought a bear will do and lounged forward to a suddenly retreating cat into the forest.
Not known to anybody was the fact that the previous storm had produced a freak lightning that vaulted right in the smack of a tree inside causing a big branch to be pushed all the way bending and tearing until it was resting on the ground.
The branch had one of those big mud bed & breakfast wasp establishment with a slight crack on it but holding if you let it alone.
Of course the cat didn’t knew, either did the dog, but with one difference, the cat saw the wasp nest, the dog didn’t.
The cat ducked as cats do at full speed, the dog just whacked his head on the cracked mud house which opened wide to let a zillion of suddenly very angry tenants to come out in protest about the lousy accommodation.
While the cat, a wise creature, shot from there at the first bzzzz coming his way, the dazzled mutt trying to focus his eyes first, identify and take action received the attention of a scouting party of wasp.
With a series of high pitched yelps he followed the same exit path the cat had taken followed by an increasing buzzing thunder.
When I saw the cat disappear inside the forest chased by the dog I had not time to think anything because the cat appeared, this time like he was shot from a mortar going flat out, with big bulging eyes full of unadulterated sheer terror, running like he had left eight lives back there already and holding to the last one for all it was worth, the dog was just a couple of life’s back, the image of a gray hound, but this time with the bus on his tail and running like a prize race hound.
The first thing I thought was, bear! it was logic, because a loot of beer over the limit is not recommended to improve the intelligence or your reasoning capacity, we sat complacently enjoying the monotony of a hot Summer afternoon being broken by the side show, when we saw an extremely alarmed Willard sliding down that ladder of his without touching no one of its rungs, faster than Enron paper stock five minutes after that bubble went puff!
The cat, not friend of my I will say, was running in a true straight line going between Marty’s legs with no side deviation tolerance whatsoever, his feline machine at full throttle feeding on terror, not even missing a whisker as he went through the netting of my kitchen screen door with a whoosh!
The dog, seeing the open landscape between the houses, just went for it to win the races and make a few punters happy, occasionally remembering the stings and yelping a little more to comply with Nature’s laws.
Marty and me were already on our feet, overturning our respective chairs that was the signal for “Little” Manuelito to open his eyes in amazement and see the menacing buzzing cloud coming, and for a body that heavy he was mighty fast following the cat through my already ruined screen, splintering wood and wearing the rest of the netting like a veil, followed by yours truly and Marty dragging Joe’s almost limp body with a brain somewhere not on the same wave length of understanding about the impending storm.
We closed the door just in time, though many of the wasp frontrunners didn’t have it to break their irresponsible disregard of speed limits and peppered my kitchen door like the bullets of a stuttering machine gun hitting our cover like we was back in Nam.
My neighbor Benson, not being fast enough in the retreat department, learned the hard way a lot about the honey and the bees.
I don’t know why, but I was thinking about bouncing cats and dogs as I drank yet another bottle of Coors.
You do know how to write a story. This is a very good one too. Enjoyed it and the barbeque with your friends. Know how to feed them too. As for the dog and cat, they survived and the bees can go on collecting honey and life can go on to next Year's barbeque.
I could picture this. and yep, dogs do what dogs do...Lady J
Reviewed by Kathryn Collins
11/14/2007
Oh my goodness Georg,
I've been laughing so hard, I had to take a break before commenting. Along with your superb writing talent and wonderful wit, Bouncing Cats and Dogs is a little slice, although unusual, of the surviving vets' lives. There are so many priceless lines worth repeating.
love,
Kathy
P.S. - The entire chase portion ran like a movie through my brain.
Because you said please I was thoroughly pleased and could see as clear as mud. Only teasing. This story is hilarious and the picture painted of you and friends is too real to be fiction. Artist your palette is an astounding place. PLB&G. Mikii
This is hilarious as some of the earlier ones. I like that BBQ going at full throttle! What else is going at full throttle? Your references to brains or lack of them is precious. Cheers
Oh Georg, you've done it again!
"Bouncing Cats & Dogs" proves that we can hold onto those endearing times of simplicity, where old friends gather for a backyard BBQ, knowing, in the realm of who chases who in this world of chaotic disorder, the order, still and always will, remain the same!
Excellent job!
Love and Peace~
Kimmy~
P.S. Have another Coors, and see what inspires then! LOL! Works for me! :)
Although I wouldn't come to actually "meet" America till many, many years and deep changes later, I have always enjoyed the atmosphere of Norman Rockwell's art, for, in many ways, and although this may seem strange, it reminds me of the warm atmosphere I was fortunate to experience in my early childhood, here in Portugal. As I read Georg's vibrant, vividly coloured story, so brilliantly written that the scenery, the characters, and even the scents, the textures and tastes, really "bounce" and breathe to life all around you, I am inevitably - and very pleasurably - "pulled into" that wonderful atmosphere again... and just feel incredibly lucky to be there and partake of such episodes of... yes, of a life intensely lived and imbibed to the full! Georg's humorous dashes, soaring from a "brushstroke" that creates some of the most extraordinary, funny, and intelligent "caricatures" I have happily come across in my avid reader - lustful art lover life, make of his stories - and this one is a perfect example - true works of art... by a true genius!
Anxiously looking forward to going through Georg's "bouncing" gallery in a book... in two books, in many books, his reverent fan, smiling from the heart, with great affection,
Alexandra*
In the spirit of his other bouncing stories; Georg E Mateos continues to supply us with a gang of friends and familiar neighbors that any of us would enjoy having around. The local cats and dogs continue to entertain us with their antics, while a hot summer BBQ loaded with plenty of Coors catches Georges captive audience with a surprisingly entertaining buzz of physical and mental stimulation.
An endearing write Georg, as always, with your inimitable style and wry humor. Best of luck with the magazine. With some good solid editing, you could have a hit on your hands.
Blessings ...
Richard
Enjoyed the Norman Rockwell scene as painted by Salvador Dali. Especially liked:
"Little� Manuelito, being the nearest one to the grill had apparently filled his huge belly and drank half a dozen three pints coke, you don give beer to him for the same reason you don't give a loaded revolver to a monkey."
Norman Rockwell may have been North America's small town artist but you with stories like this capture life in word as he did on canvas. Very well done my friend. Humour at it's finest.
You captured the wasp cloud with all the humor of watching this as though it were a cartoon. Whew!
Now, you and your buddies have another great story to tell over the next bottle of beer. I'm sure the number of wasps will grow as the story becomes an urban legend. Still sitting here chuckling at the site.
Thirteen Sick Tasteless Classics, Part II is adult literature featuring adult language and situations that satirizes thirteen famous novellas and short stories. It is Jay Dubya's sixteenth ebook.
Close your eyes and get the “real America” picture of our neighborhood painted by Norman Rockwell, with blush on the chicks, little rascals climbing the trees and clothes lines because dryers are looked upon as a satanic devise to lose socks and where the washing machine is accepted a little mom’s helper.
