My Buddy Tom Works At a Crematorium

My Buddy Tom Works At a Crematorium
by P. Kellach Waddle
     I couldn’t decide which was more unpleasant -the oppressive Texas heat that assaulted me the moment I opened my front door, or the scent of your body starting to decompose in the middle of the kitchen floor.
     These two sensations  however were superceded by a third: Relief. Sweet, glorious, blessed relief.  You have made me sick since the moment I married you.
     I knew the whole idea was horrible  from the get-go. I knew I could never make you my second divorce. I was dead broke after divorce number one and all we had to divide up came to $39.21, dust bunnies, and leftover dog food.  ( The latter of which I didn’t need anymore since my ex’s stupid dog ran my dog off.) But now I had money from my inheritance. Big money for someone who was a poor writer living close to poverty level until I was 38 years old. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to give you half of it.
     Everything about you revolted me.  The sickening boyish shortness of your hair when I only ever  previously loved women with hair longer than my own waist-length mane.  The fact that you refused to wear perfume or make up when I wanted my women smelling like a million bucks (or at least $84 an ounce) and painted up like a soap opera star. The way that you promised to give me all the solitude I needed  for my writing, yet would intrude upon my work time — coming into my room while I was typing away to rub your heinous self on the back of my chair and ask “What are  you working on, darling?”

” Well, Darling THIS bitch!”  I gigglingly said to your corpse as I stepped around you to get  a Reese’s out of the candy stockpile on the counter.

     Why did I marry you at all?  I had lived more or less happily alone for almost two decades since the state of Texas issued a glorious piece of paper freeing me from ever having to check the “Married” box on any paperwork ever again.
     But after  my parents died my roughly seventeen million caring Tennessee relatives freaked out at the idea of me being alone. And so far away in Texas. ( For  my non-traveling rural relatives, the 10 hour drive between Austin and Memphis was seen in terms analogous to the distance between the Sun and Pluto.)
     ” You need to get married again! We can’t bear to think of you all alone!”
So when you came along, for some insane reason, I fell in love with you and  gave up my glorious solitude and became Mr. Sally Thompson. From the moment you broke your promise of not whining about there being no honeymoon because I had to get back to writing, I knew I had made a grievous mistake.
     “Can’t we go somewhere just for the weekend? You can even bring your laptop!”
     My reply that went unsaid in my mind was  “Because, you stupid bitch, my novels, stories and articles are so much more important than you EVER will be, Mr. Sally Thompson or not!”

There was no reason to get married. I never cared about the rumors that I had killed my long-missing first wife, or that I was gay, or that I liked little girls, or my favorite, that I was still secretly married to my first wife. Like my dear ex-friend Aaron who cheated me out of $4000. He was secretly still married to his first wife.  A first wife he refused to believe I had a one night stand with years ago while he was out getting HIV positive with boy-whores in Mexico, sharing both their heroin needles and their semen.

There was no reason to get married at all. I didn’t have to confer with a ball and chain when I wanted to go drink with my friends on a weekday. I never had to worry about where to split my holiday vacation time.

     “Can you come spend some time with my family this Christmas, darling?” you’d say.
     I would always dream of replying,  “No, I’d rather get a root canal while my fingers are being eaten off by alligators, bitch!”
     I never had to worry about taking time out from writing to take rugrats to soccer practice and dance recitals. (I told Sally I would never have another child, the death of my first and only child from leukemia was trauma enough.)

I hated everything about you Sally. That stupid hippie garbage you used to eat, refusing to ever make me any beans and cornbread and meat loaf. The fact that you were a heathen atheist always revolted me as well. (My devout self has not quite figured how to get forgiven for breaking the big commandment No.6, but  I will worry about that later after I get your body off the kitchen floor.)  But your weird-ass culinary  choices and your weird-ass version of spirituality proved to be my mechanism to  finally be free of you.

That disgusting Komucha fermented tea crap you drink is so foul it easily hid the taste of enough arsenic  to kill everyone in Travis County. Tomorrow everyone knows you are supposed to be going to a two month long retreat for chanting and incantating and other hippie-Wiccan sacrilegious crap.

No one will balk about  your absence, I will simply say you went off to your retreat and never came back. You are already packed and your stuff is in your car, which courtesy of an illegal immigrant, 20 grams of cocaine and $4000, will be left at the bottom of a river tomorrow, never to be found.  My buddy Tom, works at a crematorium. For another parcel  of drugs and a few thousand bucks, he’s going to make it possible for the newly single me and him to go to Vegas next week  and smoke your ashes mixed up in a fine cigar while we play blackjack…..

     …..The writer lost his train of thought about what happens next in his story after Vegas, when  Sally Thompson went into her husband’s writing room, as usual, without knocking.

” Darling, you know it’s the last night before I leave on my  Wiccan retreat trip tomorrow, want to come downstairs with me and play cards?”

“Actually, it’s time for a break. Sure dear.” Sally’s  husband saved the file of his almost-completed story draft  as he followed her down the stairs.  He stopped on the last stair to quickly text his buddy Tom about their meeting up tomorrow.

Sally asked her husband as she dealt out the hands of Gin Rummy, ” Darling I am thirsty, there’s an open Kombucha that has been opened but is practically full, can you get that out of the fridge for me?”

The writer said, ” Sure darling,  I will be glad to.”

THE END

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Comments
  1. YAY !! the person who wrote this must be a total wacko . 😉

  2. A clear vote for marriage! I guess I get to decide if he killed her or not. I like that!

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