Wont Be Spared

By

Rocky Cartwright

 

There was a real pretty woman in Dunwoody who called me on my manhood.

She introduced me to pancakes.


I would’ve asked her to be my wife but we must maintain standards:


Lonesome Whistles

Blacking out in public toilets

Turning on mayors’ daughters

Gutting horses

Breaking hearts.


There was a stellar lay in Mobile.

I almost thought of settling down.

But a man has to play the role assigned him:

loner

emotional vampire

spiritual rapist

solitary man


There was a certain young lady in Toulouse who bathed me in lavender and fancied me up in a suit and tie and took me to her debutante ball.

It might have been nice roasting a pig and drinking sweet tea in her big back yard with her by my side and a gulf breeze easing our perspirating.

But I discovered as a very young man what hides beneath the immaculate veneer of a good woman:

temper tantrums

teetotaling

tidy bureaus

persian kittens

cold shoulders

staying put

tending to things

leafy greens, and, worst of all,

women tend to get disenchanted when they realize that you can’t always find the words.


I made it north to Indy.

They demonstrated the proper ideologies until they were faced with the realities.

After that, there wasn’t much difference between a woman from Evansville and a woman from Tallahassee. Hardly at all.


But a buddy of mine, the only Jewish fella in Lee County, told me that if I truly wanted to test my resistance I’d give a New York City woman a run for the money. He said a New York City woman would break me down so fast I’d be praying nightly for the sort of Southern Hospitality I’d grown accustomed to.

And I figured: Well, hell, if I can handle the putas you find in El Paso I can take on any sweet smelling cosmopolitan honey that comes my way and emerge victorious with a few scratches on my back at worst.


And that’s how I found myself, broke and smelling like urine, in front of the Brill Building with nothing but a bus ticket to Wildwood and a ukulele with a missing string...