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"Who Is Bertram C. Legg?"

This is embarrassing.

It all started yesterday when we got a couple of checks in the mail.
I can't handle prosperity.
That's why I never have much of it.

Send me a check for 57 cents
and I feel I'm entitled to celebrate.
My celebrations often take the form of calories.

Yesterday we went to Walmart to stock up on Pepto-Bismol
and other luxuries.
We hadn't eaten breakfast
because we were in a hurry to cash our checks
and get out of the slammer for a few hours.

Our Walmart has 43 checkout counters
but only three of them have ever been opened.
After waiting a couple of hours in the Express Checkout,
I had a hunger fit,
and spotted the Reese's Peanut Butter cups.

I bought us each a three-pack,
and mine was gone before we found our car.

Then, back home, Misty fixed us I nice big dinner,
but afterward we still didn't feel sufficiently rewarded.
We made an ice cream run to Handy Way.

Like a graduate from a Chinese university,
two hours later I was dumb again.
I had some raisin bread.

At these moments
I can logically explain why the calories won't count.
Did I mention the two bottles of Michelob?

I hit the sack about 3 AM, my usual time,
but was kept awake by heartburn until 7:30.
People were going to work!

When I finally slept I had my usual dreams:
1. I'm in a strange city trying to find my way back to someplace.
2. I'm in a strange hotel and can't pay my $30,000 hotel bill.
3. I'm in a strange night club and it's showtime,
but our instruments are missing.
The regular dream program.
So where did Bertram C. Legg fit in all this?

In midafternoon Misty was sitting on the side of the bed, looking at me.
She was dressed, and had been up a while.
She said, "Are you okay?"

I said:
"Yeah, but who is Bertram C. Legg?"
Even for me that's an odd thing to say when just waking up.

It bothered me all through morning coffee.
"I knew a Joan Legg once", I said.
Misty was reading the paper.

I turned on the computer and looked in my Address Book.
There he was: Bertram C. Legg!
I looked for an address, or any other notes about him.
Nothing.

I will probably be sorry about writing this.
He may be an IRS agent, a DJ, or my godfather.
He may read this, and retaliate.

But I can't stand the suspense.

Copyright  November 7, 2002 by Jack Blanchard. All rights reserved.

 

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