Stoney Broke, author of the story, “Colfax Mingo and the Demon Woman,” has decided he wants his own blog, instead of posting here. Adios, old cowboy. He’s hanging his Stetson over at Story Corral. Pay him a visit, and soon he said he’s posting another installment of the tale of Colfax “and his tangles with life.”
Here’s the first installment of a story some cowboy residing in my brain, name of Stoney Broke, wrote awhile back. It’s called “Colfax Mingo and the Demon Woman.” It’s rated PG-13 for language and occasional comical adult scenes. I hope you enjoy it. If so, watch for more installments to follow.
“Ask Sally Smart”
The Octavia Bee-Gazette
June 26, 1998
Dear Sally Smart,
I am a 46-year-old single man, good-looking, hard-working, physically fit and know how to treat a lady. However, it seems like every woman I am attracted to has some fatal flaw.
One gal had three giant brothers with body odor who thought no man was good enough for her, and they would gather real close around me and glare at me whenever I came over, until I finally gave up.
Another one would bawl like a baby every time we went out, because she was still all hung up on her drunken ex-husband who ran out on her six years before.
Yet another one was real mean, and she went and had my old dog, Charlie, put to sleep to get back at her last boyfriend, which made no sense whatsoever. I could go on, but you catch my drift.
Sally Smart, what am I doing wrong? I’ve asked my friends, but they’re just as confused as I am. So please answer soon, as I am just about at the end of my rope here, especially without old Charlie to talk to.
5:06 PM, and the Amazon Bar was waiting for Colfax Mingo.
At the moment, Colfax was attempting to raise a bubble or two off a sliver of Lava to scrub axle grease off his hands and studying his face in the mirror. Jowls, not too bad for a man of 46. Eyes, a striking shade of blue the ladies at the Amazon sometimes remarked on, especially when he wore his fancy royal blue dress-up shirt with the pearl buttons. Hair, sandy with a few strands of gray. Hairline, receding a bit, but you might just think he had a high forehead. Holding my own, he thought. Okay.
He grabbed the nail brush off the garage sink and had just begun working seriously on the black under-nail gunk when he heard the ding of the air bell. Damn, he thought. Don’t let it be garage work. Just five dollars regular, maybe, which Sonny could handle, and then it would be Miller time.
Sonny yelled at him, “Hey, Col! Here comes Sara Lee!”
Colfax looked out the garage door and saw Sara Lee Giddons’ big brown 1976 Chrysler New Yorker gliding up to the pumps. He remembered the geography of that car’s back seat very well. And of Sara Lee. Last year, they had come together like the two elements of a plastic explosive, with similar results.
The entire basis of their relationship had been Colfax’s obsession with Sara Lee’s rear end. He dreamed about that generous derriere, awake and asleep. And as he went about his daily business in a sort of buttocks-induced trance, practically anything could remind him of it. A Big Boy tomato. A ’56 Buick bumper. His own chin cleft when he was shaving. For months, he was stumbling all over the station, butt-struck and, he thought, in love.
He and Sara Lee craved each other like sweet chocolate. On her lunch breaks from the Silver Saddle Cafe, she would drive over to the station, where he’d have the garage door up, the “closed” sign already hanging in the window. She’d pull into the stall, he’d lower the door, and they’d get down to business in the New Yorker’s plush back seat.
She’d suck on Colfax’s earlobe and sigh into his ear, “Oh, Mr. Mingo. I think my rear end needs workin’ on. Or is it my front end? I just don’t know. But you can find out, can’t you, Mr. Mingo?”
“Let’s see about that rear end first,” he’d say, spreading his hands over her behind and massaging it deeply as he pulled her to him. She’d sigh, wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him hard enough to turn him inside out.
After completing a ten-point check of her rear end, he would turn his attention to Sara Lee’s front end for awhile, and soon the interior of the New Yorker would be festooned with clothing, like a big rock beside a swimming hole. Then Sara Lee would murmur, “Oh, Mr. Mingo, I think I need a new… drive shaft, don’t you?” Her coffee-black eyes would smolder, setting Colfax on fire, then Sara Lee would pull him down, and soon Colfax would find himself bouncing like a little boat on Sara Lee’s big swells.
Now, seeing her again, Colfax felt a residual flash in his loins. But it was all over between them, had been for months. And he’d had three girls since Sara Lee.
Over the years, Colfax had gathered a large body of evidence indicating that his pecker wasn’t the best judge of relationship material, but he still couldn’t figure out what to do about it. Sara Lee was a case in point. While the sex part had been stupendous, at those other times, quiet times, when they had sat on the cushy couch in front of Sara Lee’s big-screen TV watching “Austin City Limits” and sharing a bowl of microwave popcorn, Colfax had felt flat and empty.Sara Lee, on the other hand, had seemed perfectly satisfied with their arrangement. And Colfax had gone along for awhile. But then she’d begun dropping the “m” word and wanting him to go along to Walmart and help her pick out kitchen curtains and small electric appliances. Colfax had begun making excuses. She’d sulked. He’d soothed. She’d screamed. He’d scrammed. There had never been a definitive ending to their affair. He’d just run out of stories, and Sara Lee had run out of steam. And now here she was.
Sonny ambled over to Colfax, his pimply brow furrowed and his thumbs hooked into his belt loops. “You want me to handle it, Col?”
“Naw, got to see her sometime,” Colfax mumbled. He squared his shoulders and headed toward the New Yorker.
Copyright 2012 Liz Craig. All rights reserved.
[To be continued]
From my earliest days on earth, my mother exposed me to great music. She sang and listened to classical music, and my dad had jazz records and played piano.
With my late mother’s birthday coming up on the 19th of this month, I am thinking more and more about music, and how grateful I am to have had the musical background to appreciate it. So here is a slide show about my lifelong affair with la musique. Hope you enjoy it.
Just on my nose, a little patch that some prescription cream is eating away.
For a year or two (three?), this little patch on the side of my nose had been flaking and peeling. When I went to a dermatologist for a mole check (required annually for people like me, with “that European skin”), I pointed it out, thinking she would give me some kind of cream to clear up what I thought probably was some kind of dermatitis. Nothing to fret about.The dermatologist did give me a prescription for cream to put on it, but not to clear it up. This cream (Fluorouracil, in case you’re interested) has the ability to eat up cancer cells. I read the instructions and warnings, which is always frightening, and decided not to use it. I didn’t fully understand it. I thought it was supposed to identify cancer cells so you could have them surgically removed. And I really didn’t want to think about it. Besides, it was probably nothing, I thought. No need for such extreme measures. Then my other doctor explained it to me.
This cream is an *alternative* to surgery. It eats up the cells, and voila! no more cancer. He said it’s “pretty cool” that when it works, you can actually see the outline of the cancer under the skin. “Pretty cool?” Yech.
So anyway, I started putting a thin layer of it on the flaky patch twice a day, and before long, it turned an angry red. Then a thin scab appeared over it. I don’t know how long I’m supposed to keep applying the stuff. When I see the derm in a couple of weeks, I’ll find out.
The idea that I have skin cancer is unsettling, to say the least. Just the “C” word is troubling. Now that it’s become a reality with me, I remember a couple of bad burns when I was a child from spending too much time at the pool. That can up the odds you’ll have cancer at some point. But who ever heard of sunblock back then? Girls were lying by the pool for hours, applying baby oil and mercurochrome to get that fabulous-looking bronze. BTW, did you know mercurochrome is a poison? Yep. I recently read a book on poisons. OK, so my reading tastes are weird.
I have several kinds of sunblock, including in my facial moisturizer (though it’s only SP15, which is practically useless, they say). The overexposure I had long ago still will make itself known, it seems. But it’s good to use sunblock now, so exposure doesn’t cause any more troubling moles or flaky spots.
If you have “that European skin” (That is, if your forbears came from France, Germany and Czechoslovakia, as mine did), go for a mole check every year or two, whether you think you need it or not. And if you see a mole or a flaky place that looks funny, get to the derm sooner. It’s better to know, as difficult as it is.
God, the terrors of aging.