He Won’t Ask, So I Will: Can You Help Out Ol’ Bob?

14 Aug

by Roger White 

Sometimes, my frenetic fellows, there are things more important than humor. Not often, but sometimes.

In the 93 years and four days that I’ve been penning this potpourri of philosophic punditry, I’ve been serious with you only three times: (1) upon the enactment of Prohibition; (2) when Roger Staubach retired; and, of course, (3) when Irene Ryan passed away.

 

It took me months just to dip my toes into a cement pond again after Granny was taken from us.

Alas, I come to you with a heavy stylus again, and your stylus, too, will droop when I share with you this woeful story of one family’s misfortune over this sullen summer season. I know this family well; they live in my neighborhood. The dad provides a modest living for his wife and two kids; however, he’s proud and would never ask for help. But let me tell you, friends, their situation is dire.

It all began in May, actually. The family patriarch—we’ll call him Bob—was trimming the front yard with his ancient but trusty weedeater. A sharp, brittle crack, like that of a rock breaking glass, sounded behind Bob. Upon investigation, Bob found that it was the sound of a rock, breaking glass—his car’s rear window, in fact, shattered to bits by a stone thrown from his trusty weedeater. Thus began Bob’s season of sorrow.

Just days later, Bob and his wife—we’ll call her Bobbie—decided that even though money was tight, it was high time to install rain gutters on their roof. Water had puddled in deep pools near their front door whenever it rained, and they worried about flooding and uneven settling of the house’s foundation. Less than a week after the gutters went up, during a sudden downpour, the family’s cat—we’ll call him Mr. Bobs—was seen eyeing the living room ceiling with peculiar intensity. Upon investigation, Bob found the ceiling leaking like a Watergate informant. Bob and Bobbie ran outside to witness all the rainwater from one roof funneled into one tiny spot on the roof below it. It was like Niagra! That’s what Bob said. When they came back inside, the shellshocked couple saw that a refrigerator-sized chunk of the ceiling had collapsed onto the living room floor, sending Mr. Bobs and the dog—we’ll call him Bobsy—scampering to safety. The living room was a quagmire of plaster, sheetrock, soaked insulation, raccoon droppings, and not-so-drywall chunks, all in a nice, fetid stew. The gutter guys blamed it on the house’s “bad flashing.” Bob began to develop an eyelid flutter.

It was about this time, during hostile negotiations with the gutter people, that Bobbie’s ancient but trusty vehicle began coughing and uttering noises not at all reassuring. Upon investigation, Bob’s mechanic diagnosed several near-terminal illnesses, maladies that could be cured only by a new timing belt, front-end alignment, major overhaul of the magna-gasket-crossover valves, complete johnson rod replacement, and other wallet-invasive procedures.

And, of course, all of this comes when the family’s oldest daughter—we’ll call her Bobette—has come of driving age and is steadily, maddeningly lobbying for a vehicle of her very own. Upon investigation, Bob and Bobbie have learned that insurance for young Bobette will come to a monthly sum that is approximately the equivalent of the family’s home mortgage.

Wait, that’s not all. Oh, no. As July melted into August for this ill-fated family, they noticed the ambient temperature in the house steadily creeping higher and higher, to the point where everyone began huddling near the freezer pretending to hunt for frozen burritos and ice cream. Upon investigation, Bob found the home’s A/C unit passed out in its little garage closet. No pulse, nothing. Dead from overexertion. Prescription: new units, inside and out—and, of course, new dinner menu: Ramen, beans, hamburger helper. As cousin Eddie says in “National Lampoon’s Vacation,” “Don’t know why they call this stuff hamburger helper, it does fine just by itself.”

Indeed. And if that wasn’t enough—for this family, I mean—they’ll be paying off the full set of braces for the youngest—we’ll call her Bobina—until the year 2106.

These are good, decent folks. Bob would never ask, so I will. Won’t you help out a neighbor in need? Just contribute what you can—five bucks, a buck, a Whataburger coupon, whatever. Just send it to me, and I’ll be sure that Bob and Bobbie get it. God knows what autumn has in store for us—uh, them.

Roger White is a freelance writer living in Austin, Texas, with his lovely wife, two precocious daughters, a very fat dachshund, and a self-absorbed cat. For further adventures, visit oldspouse.wordpress.com.

Advertisements

3 Responses to “He Won’t Ask, So I Will: Can You Help Out Ol’ Bob?”

  1. Rusty Pope August 14, 2012 at 3:54 pm #

    I began to cackle harder the more I read….. I had a run like this one summer. Keep your chin up “Bob”. Oh… stay away from the casinos until the condition clears up!!!

    • oldspouse August 14, 2012 at 3:58 pm #

      Amen, Rusty. I mean, Bob tells me to tell you, Amen.

  2. Margie August 16, 2012 at 8:16 pm #

    Is bad luck better than no luck at all? Clearly not…

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: