and . . .”
“Wait. What? You called an 800 number on the tube—while you were in the middle of pumping his uh, uh?”
“Penis. Pumping his penis. You can say it. Yes, I had to ask them what I was doing wrong,” she said, as if this were the most normal course of action one would take during this process.
“So, what did they tell you, try two rubber bands and call me in the morning?”
“Oh, that’s funny,” she said throwing her head back and jutting out her chin, but most of all, she stopped talking.
“OK. I’m sorry, go ahead and finish the story.” I wanted this saga over and didn’t want to revisit it later.
“I wasn’t doing anything wrong, his equipment is just shot. Kaput. Finished.”
“His penis is out of warranty? Can you get a refund on the marriage license?” I asked with all the seriousness I could muster.
“I’m never telling you anything, ever again.” Julia crossed her arms over her chest as if she could not be coerced into further discussion. This faux insult lasted a nano second. “But, the answer is no, I can’t get a refund on the pump either. So, I am divorcing S.J. and he is going to pay for it since I’ve paid for everything else since we’ve been married.”
I didn’t want to mention S.J. filing for bankruptcy would perhaps affect how fast he was going to pay to get the divorce filed. “Julia, I’m going to say a prayer that you find a good man. St. Ann, St. Ann, please find Julia a man.”
“Y’all Catholics have a saint for everything, don’t you? Well, if you ask St. Ann to find me a man, make sure you ask her to find me a rich one, and make him tall and good looking.” Julia was a Baptist and scoffed at many Catholic traditions.
“This isn’t like an order you can place at a drive-through window. You have to have faith that your prayer will be answered. Do you still have that big, Black and Tan Coon Hound your neighbor left you when she died?” I said to change the subject.
Julia and I were both animal lovers, but she took in all sad dog stories. I only took in sad Schnauzer stories. Once, she stopped on the interstate in the pouring rain and coaxed a lab mix into her Mercedes. She had mud all over the leather seats, up to her ankles, ruining her very expensive four-inch pumps. It probably cost more to clean the car seats and replace the shoes than pay for the divorce with S.J. Julia had her principles! She would not take any pet to a shelter, and now she had another mouth to feed. This is how Julia and I, kindred spirits who loved animals, are friends in spite of many other things that we do not have in common.
Julia was dating S.J. when I first met her. We both were working at the phone company. S.J. told you, and would tell you often, he was a retired athlete. I’m not sure what he retired from as he never finished his story, or he changed the subject if you got around to asking. He stood 6’9” and carried an extra one hundred and fifty pounds. I felt petite standing next to both of them. S.J. drank a lot and he turned into a mean drunk. I can’t imagine what possessed Julia to marry this buffoon, but marry him she did. S.J. might be what got Julia into taking on stray dogs, or maybe the dogs influenced Julia to take on S.J.
After her neighbor died in the hospital, Julia kept the 120 lb. Black and Tan Coon Hound she was watching for her. S.J. started to rag on her about all the dogs she was taking care of. His drinking, saying negative things about the dogs, and his inability to sexually please Julia, bought him a one-way ticket out the front door.
“Yes, I still have the Coon Hound. Why? Do you have a saint for him, too?”
“As a matter of fact, we do. Our dog saint is Saint Francis of the Animals. Before you ask, there is no cat saint so he has to do overtime for cats and all other animals.”
“Wow. You Catholics gyp the animals out of their own saints when you have a saint for every other people thing, right? Isn’t there Saint
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