GimmeTheBall!
Junior College Transfer
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- Reaction score
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I knew she was trouble the way she wore that throwback jersey that read: R. White
I stubbed out my Philip Moreees cigarette and fixed my eyes on her through the haze of cigarette smoke. Then I took a drink of rye and took her in like a long drink of Ya-Hoo chocolate drink, the kind that sticks to your ribs and causes your mom to remark how hard it is to get the stain out of my JC Penny cotton dress shirt
She was a blonde. Dressed in Red. I saw that she was breathin' heavy, maybe for me or maybe for those three flights of stairs in the W. Wright Chester Building where I hang my hat
It was hot and humid that day so I had taken off my suspenders that glow in the dark in case some card shark or Italian boy from the famiglia in the East Coast takes me for a ride and they find me face down like a mackeral in Mrs. O'Donnell's Fish Market on a Friday afteroon. Glow in the darks make it easy to find my body at night.
But to get back to my story, see, this dame she was no ordinary dame. I could see she was class. From her Dillards brand of dress to her Kohls' sensible shoes she wore. SMU, I guessed. Probably old money. Her father likely a banker from Omaha; her mother a society dame from Irving, Texas.
Her lips were crimson, like The Kitchen's eyes after an all nighter at the White House. Her hair was mussed, making her look like a Rita Hayworth or that broad from the game show Password.
She opened her mouth and told me her name was Zelda.
Yeah, some SMU dame with a banker father from Omaha and a society mother from Irving who lunches with the Bowling League crowd and who antiques on Saturday mornings with her aunt Bess, is named Zelda?
OK, so I played along.
"Whadda ya want and make it snappy because Route 66 is on the TV in 10 minutes and Todd Stiles is about to sell that corvette so he can buy an arm for a police buddy he ran over while speeding with that Maharis guy
So this Zelda tells me that she adores Randy White, the manster.
And she's been a Cowboy fan since 1957. Right then and there I knew she was lying. No women were football fans in the '50s.
"What's your real game, Gams" I said in that Mannix voice of mine.
"I am worried that our Cowboys secondary is as porous as the topsoil in Irving" she said.
"The Cowboys can't seem to pressure the QB and Newman cant be the lone rock in the secondary. Roy is just too slow!"
She started sobbing. "Dames!" i said as I handed her my napkins from Taco Bueno.
"No soap, Sis. Lissen and lissen good," I told her as I grabbed her from where she sat, swung her across the room by her hand and then she came to rest in my arms.
"Our problems don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy mixed up world," I said in the Casablanca dialect known only the Vichy Government minor bureaucrats and Dead Sea smugglers.
"Yes," she sobbed, "I just can't stand to see how hard Tony works to make us great and the defense keeps letting the others score time after time to make it close."
I couldn't take it no more so I shook her by the shoulders to bring her to her senses."
"Get ahold of yourself, Sister!" "You know the defense just almost held the lousy Jets to nuthing and still you aren't happy?"
"They are like 30th in offense!!!" she screamed. At that moment she knew I was not her ally. She had no more use for me. She was SMU and I was junior college private investigator and refrigeration certified. I knew she would try to do me in.
Then the room started spinning. I knew she had put a Mickey in my rye and probably one in my fried balogna sandwhich I had bought at the gas station.
I watched her run off into the night, shouting how one day our "work in progress" defense would let us down in the playoffs.
It took a while to regain my senses.
Crazy dame, I thought to myself as I slugged down one more rye and took some brilliantine from the can to slick down my hair to go into the night.
You can't live with them, you can't live without them.
Forget the Route 66 episode where Tood buys the arm and Maharis gets probation. It would have to wait until Artie Mangum from the flea market could invent the Betamax. Stella was waiting for me at the boxing match. I had to show. It was raining and the steets in Deep El were slick. A cab stopped and then took me where more trouble likely awaited, though Stella would cover me cause she was packing heat and lots of perfume.
I stubbed out my Philip Moreees cigarette and fixed my eyes on her through the haze of cigarette smoke. Then I took a drink of rye and took her in like a long drink of Ya-Hoo chocolate drink, the kind that sticks to your ribs and causes your mom to remark how hard it is to get the stain out of my JC Penny cotton dress shirt
She was a blonde. Dressed in Red. I saw that she was breathin' heavy, maybe for me or maybe for those three flights of stairs in the W. Wright Chester Building where I hang my hat
It was hot and humid that day so I had taken off my suspenders that glow in the dark in case some card shark or Italian boy from the famiglia in the East Coast takes me for a ride and they find me face down like a mackeral in Mrs. O'Donnell's Fish Market on a Friday afteroon. Glow in the darks make it easy to find my body at night.
But to get back to my story, see, this dame she was no ordinary dame. I could see she was class. From her Dillards brand of dress to her Kohls' sensible shoes she wore. SMU, I guessed. Probably old money. Her father likely a banker from Omaha; her mother a society dame from Irving, Texas.
Her lips were crimson, like The Kitchen's eyes after an all nighter at the White House. Her hair was mussed, making her look like a Rita Hayworth or that broad from the game show Password.
She opened her mouth and told me her name was Zelda.
Yeah, some SMU dame with a banker father from Omaha and a society mother from Irving who lunches with the Bowling League crowd and who antiques on Saturday mornings with her aunt Bess, is named Zelda?
OK, so I played along.
"Whadda ya want and make it snappy because Route 66 is on the TV in 10 minutes and Todd Stiles is about to sell that corvette so he can buy an arm for a police buddy he ran over while speeding with that Maharis guy
So this Zelda tells me that she adores Randy White, the manster.
And she's been a Cowboy fan since 1957. Right then and there I knew she was lying. No women were football fans in the '50s.
"What's your real game, Gams" I said in that Mannix voice of mine.
"I am worried that our Cowboys secondary is as porous as the topsoil in Irving" she said.
"The Cowboys can't seem to pressure the QB and Newman cant be the lone rock in the secondary. Roy is just too slow!"
She started sobbing. "Dames!" i said as I handed her my napkins from Taco Bueno.
"No soap, Sis. Lissen and lissen good," I told her as I grabbed her from where she sat, swung her across the room by her hand and then she came to rest in my arms.
"Our problems don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy mixed up world," I said in the Casablanca dialect known only the Vichy Government minor bureaucrats and Dead Sea smugglers.
"Yes," she sobbed, "I just can't stand to see how hard Tony works to make us great and the defense keeps letting the others score time after time to make it close."
I couldn't take it no more so I shook her by the shoulders to bring her to her senses."
"Get ahold of yourself, Sister!" "You know the defense just almost held the lousy Jets to nuthing and still you aren't happy?"
"They are like 30th in offense!!!" she screamed. At that moment she knew I was not her ally. She had no more use for me. She was SMU and I was junior college private investigator and refrigeration certified. I knew she would try to do me in.
Then the room started spinning. I knew she had put a Mickey in my rye and probably one in my fried balogna sandwhich I had bought at the gas station.
I watched her run off into the night, shouting how one day our "work in progress" defense would let us down in the playoffs.
It took a while to regain my senses.
Crazy dame, I thought to myself as I slugged down one more rye and took some brilliantine from the can to slick down my hair to go into the night.
You can't live with them, you can't live without them.
Forget the Route 66 episode where Tood buys the arm and Maharis gets probation. It would have to wait until Artie Mangum from the flea market could invent the Betamax. Stella was waiting for me at the boxing match. I had to show. It was raining and the steets in Deep El were slick. A cab stopped and then took me where more trouble likely awaited, though Stella would cover me cause she was packing heat and lots of perfume.
