Hey dude,
We have been working down south, picking apples. It's not the best money but we are living cheaply. Someone gave us a giant tent and if you cook using the campground kitchen, you can get by.
What else? In terms of entertainment, Donald was messing around with this local guy's wife. He met her at the pub in town one night. They started chatting and one thing led to another.
Donald...'Don'....I can't call him 'Donald'. Who would give their kid such a ridiculous name? 'Donald'. Anyway, Don is a handsome guy. You know this. He has those chiselled movie star features. Whereas you and I might be attractive to...oh I don't know....50 or 55 percent of the female population? Don is attractive to all of them. 100 percent of the females on this planet. Even the lesbians. And even some of the men whether they are comfortable with that side of their sexuality or not. It's sickening. He walks into a room and bang! They all turn around and look. They can't help themselves. Which makes me, his mate, the perpetual wingman. This means that most nights I have the privilege of sitting back and witnessing Don's sordid love life unfold. He doesn't even have to try. He will look around, totally bored, and go, yeah, I think I'm going to have that one. And when I do benefit from getting the leftovers, these women are either jealous of their mate or trying to strategically manoeuvre themselves into Don's bed by putting up with my gropings.
Anyway one afternoon we were at the apple farm and this vehicle drives up. We were sitting at the head of one of the rows, eating lunch. I'd just flicked a bull ant off my boot and I looked up and watched this figure get out of his car and begin walking towards us, getting larger as the distance closed. As he drew closer, Don suddenly stood up and ran off into the apple trees. I had no idea who this guy was or what he wanted.
It didn't have anything to do with me. Next thing the husband of Don's latest conquest is standing over me, saying, where is the cunt? And I'm like, I don't know mate. Nothing to do with me. The husband is a big guy. Solid. He is missing two fingers on his right hand just above the first knuckles. There is probably a story behind that. Like I say, he's big. Meaty. Not that it matters: when someone starts messing around with your wife, well, it's on right? Some might say its all down to the wife. She is one who is cheating after all. Others say, if the sneaking around persists over a long period of time, well, the male is equally guilty. In this situation, the offending Casanova had given the slighted husband a licence to go berserk. Either way, you take your chances, you pay the price.
Anyway, the husband started walking along the rows, looking for Don but he didn't find him. After about 20 minutes of searching, the husband comes back to me. You tell him I'm coming for him, the husband growls. I nodded and said, okay mate. Whatever you say. Best to stay neutral in these matters. Slighted husbands don't need much encouragement to turn on the wingman. Anyway, after that, he took off.
The husband showed up at the caravan park a couple of nights later. Don was hiding in the neighbour's tent which was only a few metres from ours. He was peering out the ventilation flap. People started appearing, wondering what all the shouting was about. The husband was pointing a finger directly at me, saying you tell him....he's a fucking dead man. I nodded and said, yep. No problems.
Later on, we saw the husband coming out of the bank in town. He was licking his thumb, absorbed in counting a thick wad of cash. And when I look over, Don is hunched down on the floor of the ute, staying out of view. How long is this gonna to go on for mate? I mutter. Don was like, what? What are you talking about? This, I said.
And later still, we were in the supermarket and there he was, the husband, pushing his cart down the aisle with his kids in tow, loading up the cart with food. He was talking to his kids about something, I couldn't hear. He didn't even recognise me that time. I'll see you outside, said Don. He ducked down a parallel aisle and exited to safety.
In the end, nothing came of it. From being mates with Don I have learnt that sometimes these things explode in your face and sometimes they simply dissipate. People have unfathomable private lives in these country towns. I kept expecting the husband to appear out of nowhere and clout Don but it never happened.
Don is my mate but sometimes...I don't know. Sometimes you just intrinsically understand that it would be a good thing if your mate were to get knocked down a few pegs. It would help them grow as a person.
What did Don learn from this experience? Nothing. A few weeks later, another married woman entered the picture. Don met her in the car park of the bowling club. We helped her break into her own car with a coat hanger. And off he goes again. Screwing around.
One night she showed up and they went into the tent. I was outside, trying to ignore the yelping and grunting, trying to read my kindle. Then the jealous husband shows up. He finds her car but he doesn't know where she is. So the husband is walking around, from tent to tent, in a rage. He's yelling his wife's name over and over again: Laura! Laura!
I wandered off to the communal area and continued reading. I'd reached a crucial part in the story and I didn't want to be interrupted. All I could hear was Laura! Laura! Then the police arrived.
I guess what I don't like about this wingman situation is being made an accomplice to Don's shitty love life. He looks like a fucking adonis yet all he ends up doing is making a mess of things. Picking the most complicated, murky situations to get involved in. Why? He could just get himself a pretty little blond girl thing without any attachments. Sometimes I honestly wonder if its time to step away from this friendship? I don't know.
What do you think about all this? I mean you know Don as well as I do. Any advice?
We have been working down south, picking apples. It's not the best money but we are living cheaply. Someone gave us a giant tent and if you cook using the campground kitchen, you can get by.
What else? In terms of entertainment, Donald was messing around with this local guy's wife. He met her at the pub in town one night. They started chatting and one thing led to another.
Donald...'Don'....I can't call him 'Donald'. Who would give their kid such a ridiculous name? 'Donald'. Anyway, Don is a handsome guy. You know this. He has those chiselled movie star features. Whereas you and I might be attractive to...oh I don't know....50 or 55 percent of the female population? Don is attractive to all of them. 100 percent of the females on this planet. Even the lesbians. And even some of the men whether they are comfortable with that side of their sexuality or not. It's sickening. He walks into a room and bang! They all turn around and look. They can't help themselves. Which makes me, his mate, the perpetual wingman. This means that most nights I have the privilege of sitting back and witnessing Don's sordid love life unfold. He doesn't even have to try. He will look around, totally bored, and go, yeah, I think I'm going to have that one. And when I do benefit from getting the leftovers, these women are either jealous of their mate or trying to strategically manoeuvre themselves into Don's bed by putting up with my gropings.
Anyway one afternoon we were at the apple farm and this vehicle drives up. We were sitting at the head of one of the rows, eating lunch. I'd just flicked a bull ant off my boot and I looked up and watched this figure get out of his car and begin walking towards us, getting larger as the distance closed. As he drew closer, Don suddenly stood up and ran off into the apple trees. I had no idea who this guy was or what he wanted.
It didn't have anything to do with me. Next thing the husband of Don's latest conquest is standing over me, saying, where is the cunt? And I'm like, I don't know mate. Nothing to do with me. The husband is a big guy. Solid. He is missing two fingers on his right hand just above the first knuckles. There is probably a story behind that. Like I say, he's big. Meaty. Not that it matters: when someone starts messing around with your wife, well, it's on right? Some might say its all down to the wife. She is one who is cheating after all. Others say, if the sneaking around persists over a long period of time, well, the male is equally guilty. In this situation, the offending Casanova had given the slighted husband a licence to go berserk. Either way, you take your chances, you pay the price.
Anyway, the husband started walking along the rows, looking for Don but he didn't find him. After about 20 minutes of searching, the husband comes back to me. You tell him I'm coming for him, the husband growls. I nodded and said, okay mate. Whatever you say. Best to stay neutral in these matters. Slighted husbands don't need much encouragement to turn on the wingman. Anyway, after that, he took off.
The husband showed up at the caravan park a couple of nights later. Don was hiding in the neighbour's tent which was only a few metres from ours. He was peering out the ventilation flap. People started appearing, wondering what all the shouting was about. The husband was pointing a finger directly at me, saying you tell him....he's a fucking dead man. I nodded and said, yep. No problems.
Later on, we saw the husband coming out of the bank in town. He was licking his thumb, absorbed in counting a thick wad of cash. And when I look over, Don is hunched down on the floor of the ute, staying out of view. How long is this gonna to go on for mate? I mutter. Don was like, what? What are you talking about? This, I said.
And later still, we were in the supermarket and there he was, the husband, pushing his cart down the aisle with his kids in tow, loading up the cart with food. He was talking to his kids about something, I couldn't hear. He didn't even recognise me that time. I'll see you outside, said Don. He ducked down a parallel aisle and exited to safety.
In the end, nothing came of it. From being mates with Don I have learnt that sometimes these things explode in your face and sometimes they simply dissipate. People have unfathomable private lives in these country towns. I kept expecting the husband to appear out of nowhere and clout Don but it never happened.
Don is my mate but sometimes...I don't know. Sometimes you just intrinsically understand that it would be a good thing if your mate were to get knocked down a few pegs. It would help them grow as a person.
What did Don learn from this experience? Nothing. A few weeks later, another married woman entered the picture. Don met her in the car park of the bowling club. We helped her break into her own car with a coat hanger. And off he goes again. Screwing around.
One night she showed up and they went into the tent. I was outside, trying to ignore the yelping and grunting, trying to read my kindle. Then the jealous husband shows up. He finds her car but he doesn't know where she is. So the husband is walking around, from tent to tent, in a rage. He's yelling his wife's name over and over again: Laura! Laura!
I wandered off to the communal area and continued reading. I'd reached a crucial part in the story and I didn't want to be interrupted. All I could hear was Laura! Laura! Then the police arrived.
I guess what I don't like about this wingman situation is being made an accomplice to Don's shitty love life. He looks like a fucking adonis yet all he ends up doing is making a mess of things. Picking the most complicated, murky situations to get involved in. Why? He could just get himself a pretty little blond girl thing without any attachments. Sometimes I honestly wonder if its time to step away from this friendship? I don't know.
What do you think about all this? I mean you know Don as well as I do. Any advice?
No comments:
Post a Comment