April 19, 2012
When I was 15 my friends and I found the skeleton of a cow at the bottom of a cliff.
News Flash: Cow vertebrae are super cute.
I took one home and named him Louie The Louisianan. I made him a banner and wrote his name on it with the calligraphy pen some relative gave me for xmas the previous year that made me roll my teenagery eyes like a mofo and think “WTF am I going to do with a freaking calligraphy pen? I’m not Shakespeare. I’m not writing sonnets all up in here. Sonnets are for pussies.” But it’s like The Universe knew I would need to write something fancy, so it totally did me a solid and told my aunt to hook me up.
And oh…Louie’s banner WAS fancy. I put toothpicks on the ends so it could roll up like a scroll and be opened quite ceremoniously when he needed to be announced and stuff. Like, when he was entering a room or whatever. If I had been a trumpeteer I would have even played a big do-do-da-do situation before I unscrolled his banner and announced him. But I didn’t have a trumpet. I was, however, one badass recorder player. But although I looked everywhere for my old recorder, it was nowhere to be found. When we moved the year before, my mom had sold pretty much everything that I loved including but in no way limited to: my Glamour Gals collection, my Play-Doh ice-cream truck, and my Annie Doll. Those scars run deep, mom. Deep.
But I had Louie to keep me company in my new, lonely, play-doh ice-cream truck-less room. And I loved Louie like I love anything that’s odd and freaks people out.
I wrote him a little biography of his life story up until the point that I found him hanging out at the bottom of that cliff. He was from New Orleans. He grew up on the Bayou, huntin’ gators and selling their skins to boot makers and stuff for a decent dime. He had a family, but something bad must have happened to them, because when he would start to talk about them he would get a wistful look in his eye sockets and just stare out the window for hours at a time, never finishing what he had started to say. And I never pushed it. I just let him tell me what he wanted when he wanted, because (a) I’m not Barbara Walters, and (b) I have a short attention span and letting people (or vertebrae) tell me big honkin’ stories, and actually listening is not my strong suit. Or weak suit. Or any suit of all, really. I don’t own any suits of any kind. Suits are for suckers. And people who work in buildings. Which are really the same thing.
Louie liked Vienna Sausages and creamed corn. A lot. It’s, like, all he ever wanted to eat. Although I rarely let him eat because he had no stomach and if I got creamed corn all over the floor my mom would pitch a royal fit. Louie’s favorite music was Public Enemy. I know. I was surprised too. He loved horror movies. Wanted to watch them all the time. Never got scared either. He was one tough customer. His favorite smell was Pine Sol and he liked the feel of burlap.
Louie was a keeper. But since I’m all growed up, and doing grown up things like giving birth and raising a person and stuff, I’ve been keep him in my attic. Yeah, I feel bad about it, but sometimes dead cow bones freak little children, and not so little husband’s, out. But I might bring Louie down soon to sit in front of my fireplace with the Zombie Babies. People are starting to get used to my babies, and much to my dismay, rarely is anyone fazed anymore. With the exception of that one housekeeper I interviewed a few months ago. So it’s time to step up my game, and an old cow vertebrae with a creepily happy face, just might do the trick. Especially if I put, like, a gross rubber rat or spider in his mouth or something. People are jaded, you guys. I gotta do what I gotta do.
6 Responses to “Louie The Louisianan”
Leave a Comment
Don't have a Gravatar? (the small photo that shows up when you make a comment). Get one here, it's FREE: Sign up for a free Gravatar