by Rocky Macy
Heck Frye ain’t married, but he ain’t a true bachelor neither. My twice-divorced buddy lost both of his wives to itinerant banjo players, and like any old pond bass that been caught and thrown back a few times, Heck just seems to get more gullible with each passing plug. Leastways, that’s how I see it!
We were at an antique auction the other day going through boxes of junk looking for treasure when a red-headed sireen from the city sashayed over and began sizing us up. After I coughed several times, spit dangerously close to her feet, and wiped my nose on my sleeve, she turned her full attention to Heck.
“Say, good-lookin’.” She drawled, “Where can a girl get a bite to eat?”
Now, Heck may have been good-lookin’, and she may have been a girl, but neither of those conditions had existed since Old Rusty set aside his play clothes for overalls! But disregarding the obvious, Heck told her about the Saturday special at the Spit ‘n Whittle Café. The last I saw of them they were heading off into the sunset to wax romantic over mounds of country-fried livers and gizzards.
If this gets serious, I don’t know how Heck will get out of it. The town’s done run out of banjo players!