Big John Hudson — all five feet four inches of him — burst through the front door of the diner and threw his ball cap on the central circular table with the fervor of a sloth during mating season.

“I’ve had it with the women in my life.”

John’s single statement served to stoke the conversational fires around the big round table in the center of the diner. The morning’s discussions had, thus far, been relatively mundane — revolving around the overall ineptitude of our elected leaders, and the associated ineptitude of all the carbon-brained life forms that had voted for them. The interesting, albeit completely overlooked, common thread was that none of the members of the Circular Congregation Breakfast Club seemed to have voted for any of the current batch of bumbling politicians. Therefore, each felt absolved of any blame for whatever the present negative state of affairs might be. Each held to the tenet, “If I didn’t vote, I didn’t make the mess.”

“Having troubles with that Jillian girl, again?” asked Tommy Jones, as he recalled Big John’s difficulties keeping up with an exercise DVD from an over-demanding Jillian Michaels. Jillian kept trying to get John to “engage your core,” causing John to want to break off the engagement.

“Did one of those internet dating sites try to set you up with another girl that was too pretty, or too smart, or just too picky for your tastes?” probed Arnold Tobin with a grin, as he reflected back on several of John’s attempts to meet a women over the internet. Arnold knew John felt that online dating sites shouldn’t be allowed to ask personal questions such as does he have a job, has he ever been in jail, or how often does he bathe? He has a good job and has never been in jail — shouldn’t that be good enough?

“Did your mom lose your prized cow, again?” queried Jimmy, thinking back to the time someone had left an erroneous message on John’s answering machine about a cow that got loose. John didn’t remember having a cow, but was certain that if he did, it would have to be a prized cow (otherwise, why even have a cow?). And, he knew that, since he did not have a barn, his prized cow would (obviously) need to live inside the shelter and warmth of his home (perhaps, being house-trained might explain the title of “prized” cow). John was also convinced that, if his prized cow had gotten loose and was running amuck, it probably wasn’t his fault. Therefore, his mother must have been the one to inadvertently let the cow loose.

“The woman that lives in my truck. I’m sick of her and I’m kicking her out.” Big John clarified his comment, by raising even more questions.

“There’s a woman living in your truck? Is that legal?” Firewalker was usually the first to question the legal and moral ramifications of things — often leaning toward knowing the extents of the minimums and maximums allowed.

“Every time I start up my new truck, some woman keeps asking me where I want to go. The first time she asked, I tried to ignore her (Big John is reasonably skilled at ignoring voices), but she kept nagging at me to tell her where I wanted to go.”

“Nav-system,” chortled Harrison Winkle. “I’ve got one, too.”

“Nope. Says her name is Susie, or Shirley, or some such thing.”

“Siri?”

“Yep. That’s the woman. She’s been living in my truck since I bought it. What a pain. Always wanting to know where I’m going and then complaining about how I get there. She’s constantly ‘recalculating.’ Since when do you have to be able to do math, just to drive?” John’s complaint seemed to have validity. “The other day, I told her I just wanted to go for a drive. First she asked me if I meant Google Drive, then about a movie with Ryan Gosling, and then about a book by Daniel Pink. She just wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“There’s nothing worse than a woman, back-seat driver sitting right up front, next to you,” added Sal. “I can see why you’d want to get rid of her.”

“Now, hold on there John,” cautioned Tommy, trying to help Big John explore his options with the woman that lived in his truck. “Can she cook?”

“I doubt it. But, she does seem to know the location of every restaurant near to me.”

 

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.