by Slim Randles
Windy walked out away from his house, but kept his mask in his pocket. There was never any quit when Windy decided to whip something, and this time it was that coronavirus. Our little valley had pretty much shut down, just like almost everyone else’s.
For the loquacious Windy Wilson, whose most precious word was “audience” it was an especially tough time. Stay home. Wash your hands. Wear your mask, and don’t go where there are more than five people.
Well, that wiped out any visit to the Mule Barn truck stop coffee shop. So what was left? He couldn’t even corner any school kids coming home from class, because they weren’t going to school right now.
So Windy went home, petted his dog, Ramses, and picked up the phone.
“Hi Mamie. Windy here.”
“Hi Windy,” she said, cheerfully, “what’s up?”
“It’s this danged coronary virus goin’ round,” he said, “they tell ever-body to stay home and don’t do nothin’. Quarantine, they said. So I was a wonderin’ if you would like to quarantine with me ‘til they get this thing whipped.”
“You mean,” said the very pleasant holistic widow, “live in the same house?”
“Well, we don’t hafta go that far. I could go home and stay there overnight and then we can quarantine-up again in the mornin.’”
She chuckled. “Windy, you are a wonderful guy, but I don’t think it works that way. Quarantine means staying home alone.”
“With just my dog?”
“Afraid so.”
“Wonder why them doctors invented this here virus in the first place. Sure ain’t fun.”
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Brought to you by the nice people who call up friends and relatives just to ask how they’re doing.
