Limerick Bill Gets Jilted

I sipped my first cup of coffee on Monday morning at The End of Time, wondering if any of the other people in the café had gone to church the day before. I figured I was the only person anguishing over the state of my spiritual life, which increased my perceived state of isolation—a state I began to cherish as I saw Limerick Bill approaching my booth.

Bill had been absent from the café for a few days, which didn’t trouble me since I didn’t care to spend much time with a guy who resembled a Bolshevik anarchist. Bill was probably only in his late 20’s, but he looked like he hadn’t had a good night sleep since he left his teens. His hair was wild and curly—Bob Dylanish, in the early years, without Dylan’s cool angst. Bill held a paper in his hand, which I assumed was another dirty limerick that I didn’t want to hear.

“Hi, Bill,” I ventured, not wanting to be impolite, on the off chance that he really was a Bolshevik anarchist.

“My girlfriend dumped me,” said Bill, giving himself permission to slide into my booth. Fortunately, he sat across from me.

“That’s too bad,” I said.

“I wrote a poem to send to her,” said Bill. “Forb says I should put my feelings in writing. I was going to put a paper bag full of dog crap on her front porch, and then set the bag on fire, but Forb says that would be immature and stupid. So can I read you my poem?”

I didn’t want to hear Bill’s poem, but before I could think of an excuse that would get him to leave me alone, he dove in.

A Poem for Meredith

You told me I was creepy

And now I’m feeling weepy

But I’d really like to slug you in the face.

You once said that you loved me

And now you say I’m ugly

So I just might set fire to your place.

So I’ve never had a job

Like your other boyfriend, Bob,

Which is why I didn’t make it to third base.

When I think about it now

You’re just a big fat cow

And you’re always mad and getting on my case.

My love was like a torch

Now there’s dog crap on your porch

And it’s burning but you’ll never find a trace.

Of me.

“That’s it,” he said, imploring me with his eyes to offer a professional endorsement of his work.

“The ending’s a bit awkward, isn’t it?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Bill. “Meredith doesn’t like poetry anyway, so it won’t matter to her.”

“You already put the dog crap on her porch, didn’t you?”

Bill stared at me for several seconds before answering. “Maybe. Yes.”

“On fire, right?”

“Yes.”

“So now you’ll write this poem so she can implicate you in the crime.”

“It was just dog crap,” he said.

“What if her house burned down, Bill?”

“It didn’t. I sat in my car and watched her come out after I rang the bell.”

“And what did she do when she found it?” I asked.

“She saw me in my car,” he said. “Before I could drive away, she picked up the bag and threw it at me. It smeared all over my windshield. She has a really good arm.”

“So what’s the purpose of the poem, Bill? Are you thinking she’ll feel better about you after she reads it?”

“Maybe. No. I don’t know,” he said. “Forb just said I should write things down instead of being violent.

It crossed my mind that a bag of burning dog crap was preferable to a Molotov cocktail, but either way it was bad form.

“Look, Bill,” I said. “I think you’ve made your point with Meredith. Maybe it’s just time to move on. I don’t think you should send this poem to her, because it’ll just make things worse.”

Bill looked down at his paper and breathed a deep sigh. “So what do I do with the other bags?”

“What other bags?”

“The other bags of dog crap. I was going to do one every night for awhile.”

“Where do you keep them?”

“In my car,” he said.

“You keep bags of dog crap in your car.” This was not a question, but more of a statement of astonishment.

“Just a few—for Meredith.”

“How many, Bill?”

“Not many. Just a few.”

“How many?” I pressed him.

“Fourteen.”

I imagined the inside of a car that Bill might drive, with fourteen bags filled with dog feces acting as demonic air fresheners.

“Why don’t you take The Forb for a ride in your car,” I advised, “and tell him what you’d like to do. I’m sure he’ll give you some good suggestions.”

Bill nodded as though this was sage wisdom. He slid out of the booth and went over to The Forb’s special café corner.

I, for my part, left early. I had a lot of work to do.