“There seems to be a general decline in the “effimacaciousness” of this blog,” Floyd observed–stroking his chin.
“How you figure?” I answered his question with a question.
“He who answers a question with a question is a fool,” Floyd replied.
“Will you get to the point and knock off the pseudo-intellectual shtick.”
“You’re first and foremost, an imaginary character that exists only in my mind. If it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t be here.”
“Did I hurt your feelings? Don’t get your shorts in a bunch. Just listen.”
Floyd was attired for summer–bib overalls and slouchy railroad engineer’s cap. At least this time he had on a t-shirt. Customary brown chewing tobacco spittle stained the corners of his mouth. He expounded homespun philosophy with one foot on the front bumper of his light blue Ford pickup.
“All I was trying to say–is you need to lighten things up a bit,” Floyd answered. “Most people get &^*$%# tired of hearing the same negative @#%!&^ day after day.” I failed to mention that Floyd’s vocabulary would make longshoremen blush.
“I glad to see you turned out smarter than your buddy Larry. He’s “purt near” broke with three ex-wives. Hasn’t got a pot to (*#$@ in. He should have had enough &^*%$#%@ sense to quit after wife number two.”
I hadn’t thought about Floyd for a long time. Something about unshaven, sweaty men in bibs I’d rather avoid–as a general rule. He was a memorable character. If one looked past the disheveled, gruff exterior–he always gave good advice.