Circumcise-able Evidence

WC 495

Circumcise-able Evidence

By Jack Rawlins

“Sam, this is Josh.”

“Holly shit, man—you’re dead!’’

‘Yeah, I know.”

“Josh, are you calling from—up there?”

“No, from down here. I didn’t like it up there.”

“You’re on your cell phone?”

“Would you believe it, Sam? There are no dead zones here. But we have limited air time. We’re allowed to make one call.”

“You’re kidding me, Josh?”

“I’m not joshing you, kid. I just got here an hour ago. That other place was Dullsville. I only lasted six hours . . . had to get out. The postmortem resources department was glad to get rid of me. Said I was disrupting the status quo of eternity, a negative influence to the whole concept.”

“What concept?”

“Their pitch: ‘Heaven is great—expire to our gated, restricted community.’ Believe me, Sam; if you weren’t dead when you arrived you’d soon be—from boredom.”

“It was that bad?”

"Not if your idea of a good time is being subjected to a constant harp recital by a bunch of pluckers who never saw the instrument before. Not if you want to hear an endless debate among residents about the best way to get where they already are. Not if your idea of a fashion statement is a baggy robe. Not if constant comatose is your idea of an active life style. Not if . . . “

“Okay! Okay! I gather you didn’t like it enough to stay.”

“Well, to be truthful, they threw me out. Said that was the Christian thing to do.”

“Josh, this is all very interesting, but why did you call?”

“Sam, I need a favor. When I was waffled by that freight train, I had a dozen skins and a pair of black lace panties in the glove compartment. I want you to sneak into my brother-in-law Bubba’s junk yard before he strips what’s left of my poor old Mercedes—may it rest in piece. I want you to make those little items disappear before that little prick—who always hated my guts—finds them. If he does, he’ll bust his ass rushing to tell my widow I was running around.”

“Were you?”

“What?”

“Running around.”

“Well, maybe a little. But those items are just circumcise-able evidence that you can cut off before it gets me hanged.”

“Josh, it’s too late to hang you.”

“That’s not the issue. I don’t want Betty to find out I was getting a little on the side.”

“Why is this so important to you?”

“I want her to remember me as her prince. I want to be eulogized, not pilloried.

“So will you do it, Sam?”

“Sorry, old chum. Bubba has a junk yard dog on night duty. Besides, when Betty finds out you were popping somebody else she won’t feel guilty about the little thing she and I had going on every Friday when you were supposed to be playing poker.”

“Say what?”

“You heard right, Josh. Thanks for the call. Have a nice stay.”

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