Word Count: 493
A Little Southern Discomfort
By Peg Scarano
When I was working, I loved my weekends! I was one of those people who, during the week, would do at least one or two chores a night to lighten my weekend load. By Thursday night the cleaning would be done, groceries bought, laundry caught up, beds changed and I was ready for Friday afternoon.
On this particular weekend, Jenny was in college, Julie was off with friends and Emily and I were hanging out when her dad called to say he was at Uncle John’s – come on down.
His brother, John, claims he and his wife bought a house around the corner from us because when something broke, Rock could be right there to fix it. John was terrible at manly chores. I can remember the time John’s wife called Rock in tears and asked him to come over. She had asked John to hang a very large picture over the couch in the living room. John, being an obliging husband, took two 8” nails, pounded them into the plaster and set the picture on top of the nails. He was very proud of himself! Debbie – well, not so much.
But I digress. Emily and I leisurely walked down to John’s house where he was waiting for me with an ice cold Southern Comfort Manhattan – one of my favorite drinks! I was thinking Rock must have done something really nice for them because that stuff is expensive! The thing about Southern Comfort is that it is so very smooth and goes down real easy. It is also pretty potent so I usually have just one before switching to wine. However, we were relaxing and enjoying the day and John managed to slip two more of those sweet babies to me.
Before we left, I was feeling pretty damned good so I suggested to Emily that we race home! Of course, she was up the porch steps before I rounded the corner at the bottom of the hill, but I was undaunted and kept running. I was breathless as I approached the front porch and Rock described what happened in slow motion…
“Your feet gracefully floated over the three steps and then disappeared as you not so gracefully tumbled forward. No. You were tumbling sideways. No wait. You were then tumbling backwards – head over heels right off the porch! Your skull missed the steps by mere inches!”
Totally embarrassed, I tried to act like I had planned the entire scenario. I jumped to my feet, took three steps and then sat down and started to cry. My bravado had left me as I looked at the huge road rash on my knee, the one on my elbow and the cut on my head. I couldn’t wear stockings and I left sticky puss on everything my legs touched for two weeks.
I sadly proved to the world that I was not Jack-Be-Nimble, but rather Jill’s poor brother with the broken crown and damaged ego.