A Pot to Piss In

Chapter 22

[A Pot to Piss In.]

Hi Y’all,

In these trying times who among us doesn’t love a little escape? Today I offer you Chapter Twenty-Two of my new novel: Grok This, Bitch. It’s set in the real-life O. Henry Museum and the protagonists are Bunny, the kooky elder docent, and Terry, the much younger docent who aspires to make it as a singer-songwriter. They spend a lot of time contemplating the life of Athol Estes, who was the young bride of William Sydney Porter, the man who would eventually become O. Henry. I hope you dig it.

Spike

Chapter Twenty-Two

“This is going to be so cute,” Bunny said and held up the project she was working on.

Terry glanced up from her notebook. “Wrist warmer?” she asked.

“Try again,” Bunny said.

“Cock sock?” Terry ventured.

“For what? A donkey? No it’s not a cock sock. Jesus. Do you eat with that mouth?”

“I give up,” Terry said.

“It’s a penguin sweater. I saw this thing on TikTok. There are these little penguins and they need sweaters. I signed up to help.”

“Do you really think penguins need sweaters?” Terry asked. “I mean, aren’t they built to live in the cold?”

“It has to be true,” Bunny said. “I read it on the internet.”

“Don’t believe everything you read on the internet,” Terry said. “You know who said that?”

“Who?” Bunny asked.

“Abe Lincoln,” Terry said. “I read that on the internet, too.”

Bunny looked back down at the pattern in her lap, studied it for a minute, then resumed knitting. Terry picked up her guitar and strummed softly, jumping from chord to chord, stopping, then trying again.

“What are you working on?” Bunny asked, not looking up.

“Another song about Athol.”

“Play it for me,” Bunny said. “Please.”

“It’s not ready yet,” Terry said.

“Well, give me a hint. What’s it about?”

“It’s called I Should Have Listened to My Mother,” Terry said. “It’s a lament about marrying Will.”

“She really should have listened to her mother,” Bunny said. “I mean, imagine it. She was, like, sixteen when he started hitting on her. Total love bomber is what I say. That poor girl. Did your mother ever warn you away from a boy?”

“Do I look like I need to be warned away from boys?”

“What do you mean?” Bunny asked.

“I mean,” Terry said, pausing dramatically then tapping a little drumroll out on the face of her guitar. “I mean, maybe I’m a lesbian.”

“Oh shit,” Bunny said. “Duh. I never even thought about it. Okay, then did she ever warn you away from girls?”

“She warned me not to get too wrapped up in anybody. Ever. She said love was overrated and driven by hormones and that hormones were worse than booze,” Terry said.

“Sounds like she was a real romantic,” Bunny said. “How did I not know you’re a lesbian?”

“I guess we just had better things to talk about,” Terry said. “And really, who cares?”

“I’m an aspiring lesbian,” Bunny said. “My goal is to come out on my eightieth birthday. Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Currently I’m not too wrapped up in anybody, as per my mother’s advice. Except for Athol. I admit I’m a bit smitten with her. Purely as a muse.”

“Well that’s good,” Bunny said. “Considering she’s married. And also dead. Do you think it’s easier being a lesbian than being straight?”

“I’m not qualified to answer that,” Terry said. “But based on what I’ve read and observed about straight men, it seems possible. I wouldn’t idealize being queer though. Dykes have heartbreak, too, you know.”

“I’m glad to be done with all of it,” Bunny said. “When my hormones left the building, once I got past the circle of hell called hot flashes? What a fucking relief. It was like I got a fresh start at life. I’m completely invisible to men and even if I weren’t, that part of me that used to get so wound up over them? It’s gone. Entirely. What a distraction all that was. Now I can focus on what’s important.”

“Like penguin sweaters,” Terry said.

“Exactly,” Bunny said.

They heard the front door open.

“I got it,” Terry said, getting up fast from her chair, nearly dropping her guitar.

“You’re the eager docent today,” Bunny said.

“I guess I am,” she said, and stepped into the hallway.

A moment later, Terry came back into the parlor. “Um, we have a guest out here who has a question I can’t answer,” she said.

Bunny set down her project and got up, following Terry back into the hallway. When she saw Hank standing there she let out a little squeal.

“Hey Mom,” he said casually.

Bunny flung herself at him and held tight for a long minute. “I thought you were in London,” she said.

“That’s next week,” Hank said. “I have a little break so I thought…”

Bunny looked at Terry. “You knew he was coming!”

Terry shrugged her shoulders. “I might have.”

“You kids,” Bunny said. “I can’t believe this. Oh honey!” She hugged Hank again.

“Easy tiger,” Hank said. “You’re going to break my ribs.”

“I just miss you so much, Punkin.”

“Punkin?” Terry said.

“Come into the parlor,” Bunny said. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe it!”

They settled into the fluffy red chairs, Hank beside Bunny in Terry’s usual spot and Terry across from him, the light of the Tiffany lamp haloing above her head in bright contrast to her black on black on black uniform—t-shirt, over-dyed Levi’s, scuffed cowboy boots.

“May I?” Hank asked, lightly touching the neck of Terry’s guitar.

“Go right ahead,” Terry said. She hoped she sounded relaxed. In truth she was freaking out at least as much as Bunny. Hank Regan, lead guitarist for Dandelion Prayer, was sitting three feet from her and was about to give a little unplugged performance.

Hank picked up the guitar and started strumming. He did not sing. He switched to picking. Bunny turned sideways in her chair, leaned toward him and beamed the way she had when he had been a child on stage for school performances. Terry closed her eyes and listened. He played for a few minutes then stopped.

“Do you feel ready?” he asked Terry.

“Ready for what?” Bunny asked.

“We’re going to the studio,” Hank said.

Bunny looked at Terry. “You did know he was coming!”

“I did,” Terry admitted.

“Why am I always the last to know?” Bunny asked, but she was far too happy to feel irritated.

“No offense, Mom, but if you knew then you would have…” he paused looking for the right words. “You would have made plans. This way, we can just play it by ear.”

“How long are you in town?”

“Couple of days,” he said. “Mind if I crash at your place?”

“It’s your place, too,” Bunny said. “You know that. You can stay forever.”

Hank set down the guitar and stood up. “Well,” he said, “I need to go set up some things at the studio. I just thought I’d come by and say a quick hello.”

“Oh, Punkin,” Bunny said. “Can’t you stay a little bit longer?”

“Tell you what,” he said, “How about we grab some early dinner before we start recording?”

“Deal,” Bunny said. “I can make your favorite…”

“Let me take you out,” Hank said. “It’ll be easier. Anywhere you want to go.”

“Hmmm,” Bunny said. “How about Jorge’s?”

“Sounds good,” Hank said. “What time are you done here?”

“Five,” Bunny said.

“Great,” Hank said. “Let’s say five-thirty then. Studio is reserved at seven. That should work out just fine.”

Bunny dished out another dramatic hug and stood on her toes to give him a peck on the cheek. Hank patted her back. She walked him to the door.

“Bye Honey,” she shouted behind him as he stepped off the porch.

Back in the parlor Terry grinned. “Surprise,” she said.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

“He made me swear not to,” Terry said.

“But…I mean…how did—?”

“We’ve been talking a little,” Terry said. “He liked the tape. He said it would be cool to record a few tracks. I’m kind of shitting my pants. This doesn’t feel real.”

“Well I think it’s wonderful,” Bunny said. “I told you he’d like it.”

“I think he’s just doing this as a favor to you,” Terry said.

“No way,” Bunny said. “My son has had a mind of his own since the day he was born. He doesn’t do anything unless he really wants to. This is SO GREAT!” Her voice filled the room. “What are you going to record?”

“Not sure yet,” Terry said. “I have a few ideas.”

“We need to come up with a name for the album!” Bunny said.

“You’re getting a little ahead of yourself,” Terry said.

“I’m not,” Bunny said. “This is the fun part. The beginning. Where you get to imagine the whole thing all at once. Oh, and cover art. We need to think about cover art. I have an idea. Come with me.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Terry said, but she followed Bunny into the bedroom.

“Get in bed,” Bunny said, pointing with exaggerated authority at Athol’s deathbed.

“What?” Terry asked. “I’m not getting in that bed. You know we can’t touch that. It’s, like, a million years old. I’ll get fired.”

“By whom?” Bunny asked. “It’s just us.”

“What if someone walks in?”

“Come on. Get in the bed. We’ll do a photoshoot.”

“Not doing it,” Terry said.

“What if I do it first?” Bunny asked.

Then, just like that, Bunny was sitting on the edge of Athol’s old bed. She bounced a little.

“I don’t think consumption killed her,” Bunny said. “I’m pretty sure sleeping on this mattress did. Wow. It’s horrible. Take my picture.”

“That would be evidence,” Terry protested.

“Just take my damn picture,” Bunny said.

Terry pulled out her phone and aimed the camera at her. “Say, ‘Twist at the end,’” she said.

Bunny turned her face sideways and looked off into space. “It’s my band photo pose,” she said. “Twist at the end!”

Terry started shooting. Bunny laughed and shifted positions.

“Your turn,” Bunny said. “Come on. It’ll be great. Perfect cover art for a record of songs about Athol. Can you think of anything better?”

“We’ll both get fired when Dani sees it,” Terry said.

“She isn’t going to see it,” Bunny said. “She’s in a meeting. She’s always in a meeting. Besides, you won’t get fired because you’ll have quit. To go on the road and open for Dandelion Prayer.”

“Like that’s going to happen,” Terry said.

“Just one photo,” Bunny said. “Please?” She got up from the bed and gestured for Terry to sit down. Finally Terry relented. Bunny held up a finger. “Be right back,” she said. “Do not move.”

Bunny came back into the room carrying Terry’s guitar. She handed it over. Terry took it and placed it on the bed beside her. Bunny got out her phone and took a photo. “That’s great,” she said. Now lay down next to the guitar. Like, you’re Athol and the guitar is Will.”

“You said one photo,” Terry said.

“I lied,” Bunny said. “Come on. Please?”

“You are so crazy,” Terry said, but she stretched out next to the guitar.

“Great,” said Bunny. “Okay, now sit up again, and pretend you’re playing, and gaze longingly out the window. Like you’re Athol waiting for your drunk, deadbeat, delusional husband to come home.”

“You want me to look pissed off?” Terry asked.

“No! Like you’re Athol before she got sick of his shit. Like you’re a little dreamy, a little anticipatory, a little…”

“Codependent?” Terry asked.

Bunny kept shooting.

“Wait, now I have an idea,” Terry said.

She got up from the bed, then down onto her knees. She reached under the bed and groped around, her hand emerging at last with the chamber pot. She handed it to Bunny.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” Bunny asked. “Shit in it?”

“Just hold it up,” Terry said. “Maybe balance it on your head? Have fun with it.”

Bunny put the chamber pot on like a hat. “Why am I doing this?” she asked.

“Well if we’re going to shoot the cover for my album, then we’re going to shoot the cover for yours, too. Remember? Thunder Mug? Your senior citizen punk rock band?”

“Oh yeah! Thunder Mug!” Bunny took the pot off of her head and held it cradled in her arms, smiling down at it as if it were newborn baby. “How’s that?” she asked.

“You’re doing great,” Terry said. She shot some more.

“Oh!” Bunny said. “Oh! Oh! Oh! I got it!”

“What?” Terry asked.

“Your record. I have a title for it. “Don’t Be Such an Athol,” she said, stretching the o out. “Get it? Don’t be such an Ath-HOLE?”

“You have clearly spent far too much time in this House of Puns,” Terry said.

“Yeah,” Bunny said. “But do you like it?”

“I kind of do,” Terry said.

NOTES:

Want to read the whole book? You can order a print copy for $30 (postage included) or an e-copy for $10. Just Venmo me @spike-gillespie.

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My next FREE Writing Workshop at the Hampton Branch Library in Oak Hill is WEDNESDAY Nov 6th. We usually meet on Tuesdays but this time we’re waiting til after Election Day as the library is a polling place. I’m trying, with little success, not to be freaked out by politics. I’m really glad I have a place to go the day after, a place that’s safe and inviting. If you’d like to join us, please be sure to REGISTER HERE as spaces are limited and it always fills up.