Eddie's Marriage Close Call.

By Robert J. Wetherall

Most writers require at least a modicum of support from friends and family to help fill the potholes littering their road to fame.  I figured this would also be the case with Eddie Salinski, celebrated writer and welder who happens to be a close personal friend of mine.

But turns out I figured wrong: Eddie has forged his way to success mostly on his own, without nods of approval and accolades from others.

I found this out while Eddie and I were having quiche at a nearby Denny’s a few weeks ago.

I asked him why he never married.

“Almost did a while back,” he said.  “But fate came to my rescue.”

I remained silent, knowing he wouldn’t leave me hanging for long.

“It was about twenty years back.  Ida Mae and I met at a writers conference in Pewaukee, Illinois.  We hit it off right away and before you know it, we were talking long-term, if you know what I mean. 

“One weekend she dragged me down to her hometown in the Missouri backcountry to meet her family. They were taken with me right away of course.”

“Naturally,” I responded diligently.

“After that, Ida Mae and I couldn’t get enough of each other. We were tighter than two teenagers in a hayloft.  But then I had to go and mess things up.”

“What happened?”

“Well, we set a date for the big event and made plans to head back down to Missouri where the family preacher would hitch us up. As it happened, Ida Mae’s grandmother dropped dead about that time. When we arrived in town, they had a wake in the works and her body was all tidied up and laid out in a coffin in their living room.

“Folks came from near and far to pay their respects while the family huddled to decide whether or not to go on with the wedding.”

“And?”

“They decided old Granny would have wanted the hitching to go forward. At least she’d have a front row seat, so to speak.

“Anyhow, the wedding was set for the next day. That night, I ambled over to a kind of bachelor party. A couple of my buddies tore into town on their Harleys—all members of the In-laws motorcycle bunch.  We had a room at the Motel 6 and had a hell of a time, I’ll tell you.

“As it turned out, I did a little too much tippling. One of my pals gave me a ride over to Ida’s folks house on the back of his bike and dumped me off. I don’t remember much after that. But it wasn’t long before all hell broke loose.”

“How so?”

“Well, I was out cold on a bed in a spare room when nature called. I made it to where I thought the bathroom was and let ‘er go.  A real flood, ya know?”

“Next morning, the sun was hardly up when the sound of screams echoed through the house. Sounded like all the banshees in hell were suffering from some hugely intense affront.

“I stumbled out into the living room where, lo and behold, the whole family was sobbing and crying beside the coffin.  They looked at me and started yelling all sorts of things—Ida Mae among them.”

“What was the problem?” I asked, holding my breath.

“Seems some rotten bastard had relieved himself all over poor Granny. She was soaked to the extreme and the room smelled like a Texaco bathroom.”

“Jeez!” I exclaimed, recoiling in horror.

“To make a long story short,” Eddie said, “I vamoosed out of there faster than Secretariet. One of my In-Law buddies gave me a ride back home. I never looked back.”

“That’s a terrible story, I noted.

“Yes it is,” Eddie admitted.  “That mis-adventure took a lot of romance out of me. I’ve been happy in my solitude ever since.”

“But in your writing, you also put forward such positive vibes, such grace and elegance. Such inspired thoughts, filled with trust and hope. How do you manage?”

“Well, actually, I owe it all to.Ida Mae. A couple of years passed and I ran into her at another writers conference.  I had a hard time looking her in the eye at first but then she put me at ease, telling me that bygones were bygones and that, actually, everything turned out for the better.”

“Hard to believe.”

Eddie smiled. “Well, it’s like this:  Her big brother, Chester, was so busy reloading his Remington and blasting away at my fleeing backside that he lost his footing and fell into a deep hole.  They called Jake’s Crane Service and hoisted his fat ass out. Seems he was just covered with this thick black stuff.”

“Good rich Mother Earth,” I offered.

“No, Rich black oil. The ground was literally boiling with it. The family forgot about me pretty quick and began dancing, whoopin’ and hollerin’. Ida says they’re all zillionaires now. Happy as clams.  And they’ve erected statues of Granny and me in the city park.”

Eddie and I tipped the waitress a couple of bucks and headed outside.

“Smells like rain,” I said.

“Smells like oil, said Eddie, grinning—and then winking.