Between Deadlines

P.K. was one of those guys who threw his friends to the wolves without batting an eyelash. You know the type. You could trust him as far as an armless cripple could throw a bull-elephant.

So it really shook me up when I got home to find this bird-of-prey preening his feathers in my living room. I’ve known this specimen since the pyramids were piles of mud, and if he were drowning, I’d toss him a rope. Both ends of it! The trouble is, in years gone by, we were real pals. Like two fingers on the same hand. But the era, thank God, has passed.

I wasted no time. “Look P.K.,” I said, “you’re about as welcome here as a knife in the back. So please leave. And don’t look at Medilyn. She must be out of her ever-loving mind to let you in.”

P.K. must have come via a butcher shop and gathered up some guts on the way. He rose, looked me in the eye and said: “I’ll come straight to the point. I’m here to make friends. Man, I need a friend. Let’s forget the past and start over. Okay, so I’ve been a heel, but I’ve changed.” He shot out an arm and said: “How about it?”

I ignored the outstretched hand and thought about leopards and spots. “Oh brother,” I said, “who do you think you’re kidding? I wouldn’t believe you if you had a dozen joss sticks in each hand and more sticking out of your ears.”

Medilyn cut in. “Oh come on, Mr. Humor,” she said. “I think it’s a very charming gesture on P.K.’s part to make the first move. After all, you were friends once.”

“To my eternal regret,” I said to her. “So let’s get one thing straight. As far as I’m concerned, it’s no dice. This guy has sold me down the river too many times. I want no part of him.”

“Look, pal,” said P.K., “where’s your sense of charity?”

“You killed it,” I said. “So cut the sentimental hogwash and beat it.”

I thought Medilyn was going to burst out crying. But she held her own. Woman!

“Is that your last word on it?” asked P.K.

“Yes,” I said.

P.K. turned to Medilyn. “Thanks for trying,” he said. “Please remind this stubborn slob now and then that I tried too.”

He then gave me a long look of reproach and went his way. What was he trying to do? Break my heart?

I went and got myself a drink to get the taste of P.K. the Fake off my tonsils. Medilyn, of course, had on a look that told me she thought I was the most heartless person north of the border. Heck, I shrugged and devoted myself to the drink.

I knew P.K.; Medilyn didn’t. If I softened up and tried turning the other cheek, I’d wind up with a fractured jaw. I needed his friendship as much as Bugs Bunny needed a boa constrictor.

But Medilyn couldn’t seem to get the matter off her mind. She gave me the ice and water treatment and went on as though I had corpses hidden in the basement.

My fourth drink was gurgling down when the phone rang. A rough female voice I didn’t know said: “I want Medilyn. This is urgent.” Polite kind of gal!

“Sure,” I said, “who should I say is calling?”

“Tell her Elaine,” she snapped, “P.K.’s girlfriend.”

That really hit me. I didn’t even know the guy had a girlfriend. Poor woman, she must have a fate worse than death.

I called out for Medilyn and quickly passed the phone to her. She took it as if it were crawling with plague germs.

Twenty minutes later, Medilyn went out with her nose saying hello to the ceiling. She treated me like I was invisible. I’m suspicious when things go this way.

She returned five hours later, looking like a four-year-old who stumbles upon Santa Claus stripping off his beard. I let it ride, being a patient kind of guy when I really want to be. Half an hour later, the tide came in with a rush. She told me all about it in a swirl of choice phrases and a barrel-full of tears.

Elaine was a she-wolf in lamb’s clothing. Elaine was a lady-monster… a scheming lady with a mind like a sewer and a tongue that could curdle the marrow in your bones.

Eventually the storm passed and she calmed down. And you know what? My resolution went out the window. I’m gonna buddy up with P.K. again. With a girlfriend like Elaine, his could be a fate worse than death.

Cheers!

Joe Joshi PhD, also known as Doc Joe, is Editor of The Observer