Chapter Ten

or the remainder of chapter nine split off by an arbitrary chapter break in order to maintain consistency with the day of its publication

Unfortunately out of all the popular media that might have survived the apocalypse, reruns of The Bachelor were the only ones to emerge unscathed. It was the old man’s favorite show because it was the only show. In fact, the brand had become a de facto substitute for the word ‘show’, like Xerox once became a verbified word for copying, Hoover for vacuuming, and how band-aid was used to refer to all adhesive bandages.

“Well I only got one so there’s nobody to compete against,” you say, folding your arms.

“How ‘bout summuhthis stew!” The old man takes his ladle and fills a bowl.

“Thanks,” you say, and reach for it, but he instantly yanks it away.

“Naw, naw, f’r competin’ agint the inflady.”

“You want this stew to compete for your affections against the inflatable doll?”

“We need a thurd cuhntestint.” Here the old man remembers the ladybird refrigerator magnet homing device that had been beeping there at the side of his head since we last left him. He pulls it off.

“That’ll do!” he says, handing it to you. “Now yewe be thuh hoast.”

Here we might’ve gone into loads of detail about the argument that brought you finally round to agree to host The Old Teeth-Where-They-Ought’n’t-Be Bachelor, but the all that matters is that you eventually relent. But the author has never seen The Bachelor, as evidenced by the fact that he hasn’t gouged his own eyes out, so for now pretend it’s just like The Dating Game.

You take a long wooden spoon to use as a Gene Rayburn microphone, even though it was Jim Lange who hosted The Dating Game.

“Batchlirette numbir wun,” says the old man, addressing the stew, not that he knows which was which behind the improvised partition, “if ahhh got all bit up own by uh snake, whut wuud yewe dew tuh git the poison out?”

You give up playing host, pick up the bowl of stew and slurp it loudly while it’s still warm.

“That’s zackly rahght!” says the old man. “Yewe musta gawn tuh furst aid skule… Batchlirette numbir three: leyit’s say I gaht awll nekkid…”

“Sorry, sorry, that’s all the time we have, ladies and gentlemen! Join us again next week for—what did you say this show as called again?—anyway, join us for it next week, when the bachelorettes face off in a sudden death cage match…”

“Aw mayin, it wuz jus gittin’ good!”

“Look!” You take the old man’s head and turn it toward the distance, where a tiny dot kicks up a trail of smoke. You pull the goggles down on over your face and activate the magnification lenses that have conveniently been there this whole time but the author only now just told you about.

The assassin!

“We have to pack up and go. Now. In fact you’ll have to leave the cart. But we can take the stew and the inflatable bachelorette here and the ladybug…”

The ladybug! You run to the cockpit and check the monitor casing where all your ladybug homing devices are. There among them, you spot a refrigerator magnet of a different sort—a stinkbug, silently pulsing a warm brown light. So THIS is how the assassin was able to find you so soon. You remove the stink bug and attach it to the stew cart.

“Whahr’m I ‘posetuh siyit?” said the old man.

“Up there between the big wheels, in the rear gunner’s seat I neglected to acknowledge until only this moment, when it’s finally relevant to do so. And take this umbrella and bandoleer. Do you know how to use it? No? Well maybe you’ll learn by the time he gets here. I’ll carry on narrating everything we do as we do it. There, there, I’m getting a sealed container of stew, just like you promised me, and this brunette is going to ride shotgun. Help yourself to some milk while you’re up there. Right, are you in place now? You’re in place? Great, well I’m just sitting back down in the cockpit now, yep, sitting down as fast as I can and making sure all systems are working. Oh the ripcord! Hang on I’ll just get out and give it a couple yanks, ugh, one more here, and now she’s a-purrin’! What’s that? He’s nearly here? Well, all I have to do is let up on this brake and start pedaling as I give ‘er a little throttle here and point us south, only because south happens to be the opposite direction of our pursuer. I imagine he’ll overtake us in no time, given that he’s on a motorcycle and we’re merely pedal-assisted. What’s that? He’s shooting at us? Oh dear. But he’s having a hard time keeping his aim steady because he’s driving the motorcycle at the same time? See if you can operate that umbre… Oh you already have operated the umbrella? And how did that go, hmm? Oh, you landed a shot right at the base of his bike, which sent it flying and sent him diving over the handlebars, then tumbling to a halt, kicking up dust the whole way? Is that what you just said? Did I get that right? Well then I’m just going to keep pedaling here and throttle us off into the distance, far from this guy who is no doubt still alive but will need plenty of time to recover and fix his bike before we encounter him again scenes upon scenes from now.”

From his basket between the mechano-farthing’s two oversized rear wheels, the old man felt like he was riding a small Ferris wheel. He hadn’t had this much fun in ages. Inside his head, thoughts over which batchlirette I mean bachelorette he would pick on the next episode churned away. It was all so exciting and new, so exciting and new that the author was again guilty of POV-hopping, when in this scene we’re supposed to be in your head. But we no longer needed to be in your head because you’ve been externalizing everything you thought since you left the concessions cart.

CUT TO:

A lakeside. Or it was once a lakeside. Now it’s merely a dried up bed with old rusted-out car husks half buried here and there throughout. During the Before Times, this lake had been a popular spot for disposing of dead bodies and the cars they were murdered in. Now the beautiful car husk scenery made it a romantic spot for lovers to come and make out.

You don the Roman collar novelty dickey the author neglected to mention you shoplifted from Post-Apocalyptic Spencer’s. Absent any holy texts, you hold a panel from the cardboard box, the one with the most writing on it. You stand there between the old man, who’s tidied up his hair and his teeth to little success, and his new bride, whom he only had the lung capacity to inflate halfway.

“Do you, old man, take this codependent brunette, to have and to hold, to put an evening glove on and a bracelet, and whose knuckle to kiss and be sweet to, and to say aw shucks and to get all embarrassed when she conveys her feelings back to you by staring straight ahead and doing nothing whatsoever, and to sell stew to support, and to go back for your cart one day when we’re pretty sure the coast is clear, maybe after we get my mail and the assassin can no longer legally kill me?”

“Whuh?” said the old man.

“And do you, Codependent Brunette, take this man, to have and to hold, to be inflated by and to allow the administration of an evening glove by, and a fake pearl bracelet while we’re at it, and by whom to be kissed on the knuckle, not that you really have a knuckle, but to patiently endure his attempts at romance and the wretched state of his teeth, I mean I know it’s the post-apocalypse, but come on! And maybe, if the stew-selling business is in a slump, to rent yourself out to be kissed on the knuckle by others, knowing that this obligates the old man also to rent himself to get kissed on the knuckle as a matter of equality of the sexes, though let’s be honest—I don’t even like being in the same room with those knuckles, not even breathe the same hazy air as the person who owns them, to say nothing about those teeth—oh here we go with the teeth again—but I’m sorry, it seems that entirely new parts of the mouth had to be invented to put the teeth that he does indeed have—and you know what, maybe you don’t have to promise most of these things, just the glove wearing, and maybe he should have to write a letter to your knuckle, signed XOXO, so that no part of you ever actually has to come in contact with the same mouth that bears those teeth, and while we’re at it, I think I’m beginning to fancy you, oh I know I was chasing that redhead for a while, but let’s face it—she really has a lot of work to do on herself before she’s ready for a committed relationship, and well, I just think after all we’ve been through together that we’re really starting to bond here, and that we could really have some fun times if you’ll just leave this asshole and come off with me? I can’t promise you anything but milk from three udders and spirit gum to exceed your wildest fantasies?”

Do you, the blow-up doll:

A. say ‘I do’ to the old man, making him very happy but ensuring yourself a very mediocre future, just like the closing lyrics to the Georgie Girl theme, where you’re Lynn or Vanessa Redgrave—I can’t remember which—and the old man is James Mason, only without the dental hygiene or your loathsome vapid best friend’s baby?

B. tell the old man to get stuffed and leave him at the altar, stealing away into the street with yourself, but not before using a large cross to barricade the church door in case anyone chases you, then hopping onto a bus and going all the way to the back, where you the main character and you the blow-up doll sit and smile at everyone looking back at you, but then as reality sinks in and you realize you have no intention of spending your lives together, your smiles slowly fade fade fade until now you’re looking mildly despondent in this lingering closeup before Simon and Garfunkel’s offspring—yes, Simon and Garfunkel procreated together in spite of their eventual hatred for one another—sing the credits up the screen and bring what most people consider Mike Nichols’ greatest movie to a close, in spite of the fact that your favorite was always Catch-22?

C. Deflate.

The voting period for this chapter has ended.