Deborah Boydston Deborah Boydston
Recommendations: 45

Should that read "my wife"?

Desmond Lesetedi Desmond Lesetedi
Recommendations: 2

told my wife or said to my wife, Don?

Don Yarber Don Yarber
Recommendations: 42

@Des: Told my wife and said to my wife are accepted as being the same in this region.

Desmond Lesetedi Desmond Lesetedi
Recommendations: 2

Oh, ok, thanks for the heads up D.Y

Daniel Bird Daniel Bird
Recommendations: 47

I love this little tickling action, so freshly painted in all its silent power.

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Don Yarber Don Yarber
Recommendations: 42

Merry Chrismas, Joe, wherever you are.


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She had a friend.

Written as an assignment in Deborah's class.


Based on a true story.


I know when I’ve been bad and good, and for goodness sake, don’t mistake “bad” for “good”.


It was two nights before Christmas. The rest of the crew at work were going to stop at The Vapor Trails, a nearby pub, for a few beers. I called home and said I’d be a little late. I didn’t say I was going to stop and have a few beers with the gang. So I was bad. So sue me.


It was nearly eleven when I left the Vapor Trails. I knew that I would catch hell when I got home. There were a million things to do at home and I had left 999,999 of them for my wife to do. Wrap gifts, clean house, string lights, all of those Christmas things that kids love and adults eventually grow to dislike. By the time my youngest child was 7, I was starting to get a Bah Humbug attitude about Christmas holidays.


So the trepidation that I feared to face was worrisome as I walked out to my truck that night, two nights before Christmas.


A friend named Joe was walking with me, getting ready to get in his car. I guess he noticed the dog-pan look on my chops.


“What’s the matter, Don, are you OK?”


“Oh, I’m OK, I guess,” I said.


“You don’t look OK.”


“I’ll be all right,” I said. “I just hate going home and facing the music. I should have been home hours ago.”


“I’ll go with you and explain,” he said.


“I’m not sure my wife will accept any explanations, particularly from the guys I’ve been drinking with for the past 6 hours.”


“Well, it can’t hurt anything, I’ll try to smooth it over for you.”


I was too worried about the coming consequences to argue.


We drove to my house, he in his car and I in my truck. Fortunately we didn’t get stopped by the police on the way, neither of us could have passed the sobriety check. (I’ve learned my lesson, reformed my life, and do not do stupid things like drinking and driving anymore.)
The light in my living room was on so I knew my wife would still be up waiting for me to come home.


Joe got out of his car and walked to the door with me. I opened the door and held it open for Joe to come in. He followed me inside.


“Hi,” he told my wife. 4 comments


“MMM…” is all I heard her say.


“I just want to tell you what happened,” Joe said.


Silence.


“It’s all my fault,” he said.


More silence.


“Here’s how it happened,” he said. “I left work at the usual time, around 3:30. On my way out I passed a truck on the side of the road. ‘That looks like Don’s truck’ I said to myself.”


My wife is standing there with her hands on her hips, tapping her foot. 1 comment


“As I passed the truck I thought, ‘that is Don’s truck’ and I stopped and got out of my car. The whole front end of Don’s truck was smashed in.”


My wife stopped tapping her foot and got a quizzical look on her face. She glanced at me, then back at Joe.


“I went looking for Don,” Joe said. “He wasn’t in his truck so I was worried about him and I went looking for him. A hundred yards down the road from his truck I saw a bloody leg laying in the ditch by the side of the road.”


A quick glance at my legs by my wife.


“I walked another fifty yards down the road and I found another bloody leg on the edge of the pavement.” 1 comment


Her hands left her hips and she folded her arms in front of her. A befuddled look spread across her face.


“Then fifty yards further I found an arm on the road. It sure looked like Don’s arm, even had the same tattoo on it, an anchor with a chain. U.S. Navy, it read.”


A twitch appeared on my wife’s face. The befuddled look had started to fade, replacing it was just a blank stare with a slight twitch.


“A little bit further I found another arm. It was Don’s arm all right. I recognized his watch. It was the same Timex watch he’s been wearing since I’ve known him.”


I looked at my watch. It was now 11:30.


“I walked on down the road with my flashlight shining from side to side,” Joe said. “And lo and behold, way on down the road I saw something that looked like a head. I ran to it as fast as I could run. When I got close I realized it was a head! It had brown hair, and blue eyes. It looked like Don! I held it up close and shined my light on it and I recognized that little scar on Don’s lip. It WAS Don!”


A puzzled look spread across my wife’s face. I figured by now she would have kicked Joe out and cussed at me all the way to the bedroom, but she just stood there, arms folded in front of her, waiting.


Joe continued his tale: “I smoothed back the hair on that head, took my handkerchief and wiped the blood off of it, then I leaned over and spoke right in its ear. ARE YOU HURT DON?”


My wife laughed so hard she danged near peed her pants.


That was Joe’s story, and I’m sticking to it.


I think Santa will still come to see me. After all, I stayed up till 4 that morning wrapping presents and cleaning house. I felt good.  It’s great what a friend will do for a guy.


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