Limerick Bill

I ran into The Forb at the Post Office where he was picking up the mail from his Post Office box. He doesn’t want mail delivered directly to where he lives because he is suspicious of his neighbors and has some interesting concerns about the CIA. He had a friend with him who looked like a haunted, malnourished version of a 60’s college radical. Forb introduced him to me.

“Max, this is Bill. He’s a poet and writes things I don’t care about and I think are stupid, but I like him. He writes limericks. I call him Limerick Bill.”

With that generous introduction, Limerick Bill produced a facial expression that was a cross between a grimace and the effects of a gas pain, and then followed The Forb out the door.

The next morning at the End of Time, I was barely into my first cup of coffee when The Forb came in with Limerick Bill in tow. Forb saluted me and sat in his favorite booth across the room from me and opened a newspaper, while his companion came directly toward me and plopped down, apparently assuming that I wanted to converse with him.

“I wrote a new limerick,” said Bill.

“That’s great,” I said.

“Want to hear it?” he said.

“Sure,” I lied.

“Okay,” said Bill, grimacing with joy. “Forb has been talking about politics, so I wrote this for him:

Mr. Trump cannot be ducked,

From the race he will not be plucked.

He might have great hair,

And he’s too rich too care . . .”

“Wait a second, Bill,” I interrupted. “Is this a dirty limerick?”

Bill stared at me for a few seconds before he spoke. “No. Maybe a little.”

“You better think twice, Bill,” I said, “because Winnie is coming this way. She won’t stand for profanity.”

Bill craned his neck to watch as Winnie made her way toward our table.

“Hello Maxwell,” she said. “May I sit here with you?” Winnie wasn’t usually this forward, but the place was a bit crowded and she gets insecure very easily. I was her port in the storm. She looked cautiously at Limerick Bill. I scooted over and gestured for her to sit next to me. I was pretty sure she wouldn’t sit by Bill.

“This is Bill, Winnie,” I said. “He’s reading us a poem.”

Limerick Bill looked nervously at Winnie, and then continued.

“Mr. Trump cannot be ducked,

From the race he will not be plucked.

He might have great hair,

And he’s too rich too care,

But if he makes it we all will be . . .”

Bill looked back and forth at Winnie at me, then looked back at his dirty, wrinkled piece of paper.

“But if he makes it we all will be . . . confused.” He frowned, which didn’t look much different from his smile.

“That was very interesting, Bill,” said Winnie. “But it didn’t rhyme at the end.”

Bill wadded up his paper in his hand. “I have to go.” He left our booth and joined The Forb in his isolation.

“That is a very strange man, Maxwell,” she said. “I didn’t like his poem very much.”

“Yes,” I said. “He is a very strange man. Sometimes poets are like that.”

At that moment it simultaneously occurred to both of us that we were seated side-by-side on the same seat in the booth with no one across the table. Neither one of us immediately took the initiative to relocate. After a minute or so of silence, Winnie took the leap.

“I’m going to visit the ladies’ room, Maxwell.” She left for only a couple of minutes, then came back to my table. She sat across from me this time, and picked up a menu and started reading it. Her face seemed a little flushed.

I must admit that I liked it better when she was sitting next to me.