Inside Lookin Out

Hey. Diary, it’s me again. Sorry to be so lame about checkin in. Like, it’s a month, right? Bout since I mentioned I found my new man Harold.

Don’t get your hopes up that Harold is still hangin round. That bit is over. Just glad I don’t have to pay his hospital or chiroprac — well, you know how to spell better’n me.

He took me on a heavy date to the Chicken Inn complete w/ all the fixins and a whole bunch of beers. Hey, I didnt think to count the empties cause we were laffin it up pretty heavy.

I didnt mind when Harold took me out to the lake for a little gettin to know you foolin around. Hmmm, my lips are sealed. Can’t tell you what happened next, but I have to say Harold drives one of those Smart cars. Not so smart maybe. They’re really, really small and Harold is sort of built big and makes me look like a midget.


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I was lookin up at his big blue eyes. (Yeah, I know it was dark, but I also know his eyes are blue.) I was also huffin and puffin cause like I said Harold is a BIG guy.

Suddenly he lets out a shriek that his back has gone out. “Gone out where?” I ask. “No,” he says, “I can’t move. It’s my slipped disc.”

“Well I can’t move either cause I’m under you. You have to move before I can get up and do somethin. Maybe slip your disc back or somethin.”

“Don’t you understand, you stupid person. I CAN’T MOVE!!!”

Seein this was really, really an emergency I hit the horn again and again. Some guy from another car came to the window and said “Somethin wrong?”

“Call an ambulance, you idiot!” Harold shouted. Not smart pissin off a Good Samaritan. Thats my Harold.

Before you know it there was EMS and the local cops and a fire truck not to mention some couples who just happened to be gettin a moon tan at the lake. They spent 10 minutes laffin and then they hauled Harold out by usin the Jaws of Life to cut open the door. Well I tried to cover my face and get my underwear on at the same time, hoppin around outside. Then some guy shouts “Nice try, Red.” Okay, so I used to have red hair — till I dyed it yesterday.

I followed the meat wagon to the hospital feelin this was not gonna be the best date of my life. Told him “I’m sorry about your car. Maybe insurance will pay.”

“It’s not MY car I’m worried about. It’s my wife’s car and there’ll be hell to pay when she finds out.”

So Diary, I don’t know if there are any nice guys left out there. No clue at all. Don’t even care if they have cars. Or too big bodies. Just no wives please.

Maybe Harold was right and I’m ignorant. I think there should be a place somewhere for people who quit school or never got their GED. Hey, forgive me, world. Just don’t make me always be locked on the inside. Now I gotta find a Tylenol and go lie down.


About Carolyn Foulkes

Carolyn Foulkes is the pen name of a U.S. writer who has published a dozen stories in the past year: flash fiction and longer pieces in the crime, gothic, spec fic, mainstream, and humor genres.

>> Carolyn Foulkes's author page

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