My Friend Marci

My Friend Marci

Marci and I had been best friends since the beginning of time. That's quite a long time, when you sit back and think of it.

She’s a beautiful girl with golden hair, sparkling blue eyes, and the fairest complexion in all of Zander County. But the poor dear is rather dull when it came to the matter of intelligence. It was not her fault, poor girl, she came by it naturally. Neither of her parents had much in the ole gas tank. You might say their pencils weren't sharpened completely. Rather dull, if you get my jest. Is that wrong to say, or should I be more sensitive; I don’t know.

Millie lived in what we called, “the other side of the tracks”, which meant her family was poor. Or, if you wanted to be more precise, dirt poor. She hadn’t had a new pair of shoes in over a year, and those were from the second hand store down by the Good Will drop-off station.

But she was a dear, sweet, and dedicated friend.

No, intelligence was not her forte, at least, not when compared to the likes of Ms. Porter.

Ms. Porter was a Know �"it-all.

SHE, as she so proudly let everyone in our small town know, attended THE UNIVERSITY.

No one actually knew which THE UNIVERSITY she attended, but I'm sure she would be glad to let you know, if you bothered to ask.

She knew just about anything, and about everything.

One morning in September she trapped poor Marci in front of Baker’s Grocery and Supply Store, it was the biggest store in town.

She grabbed poor Marci and began telling her of an odd looking reptile she had just seen only hours before.

“Did you know Marci,” Ms. Porter began, “that reptilians are cold blooded creatures?”

“Are they now?” answered Marci, as if she had a clue as to what a reptilian was.

She didn't, of course, but went right along listening intently as though she were an expert on the topic.

This same sweet Marci, with golden locks of hair, was the same sweet girl who once believed numbers worn by football players indicated their age.

How she came to such a conclusion nobody will ever know.

That was Marci’s world.

Ports, which was what most people called Ms. Porter, kept poor Marci tied up for the next forty five minutes. She practically talked poor Marci’s ears off.

I was luckier, I saw her coming and hid in the nearest place of business. Ports never saw me. I suppose you could say I had escaped a miserable torture.

 It was an early Monday morning. We sat sipping flavored coffees at our local Dairy Queen. That's what we did every Monday morning; that, and gossip over local goings on.

 It was during this time of gossip and story telling I felt, for some strange reason, compelled to remark on a bit of tragic news.

I assumed Marci had already heard.

“Don’t you believe it Marci?”

“What Millie, believe what?” Marci replied.

“About old Mr. Jones,” I answered.

I was surprised by her response. Certainly she had heard the news by now.

“No!” Marci gasped. “What happened? Did old Martin fall off his horse again?”

“No,” I answered, “He died.”

“He fell off his horse,” exclaimed Marci, “AND then he died? How awful for him!”

“No Marci,” I explained, “he didn’t fall off his horse.”

“But you just said…” before she could finish I interrupted her.

“I never said he fell off his horse. I said, 'he died.'”

“Well then, if he didn’t fall off his horse,” she asked, “what did he die from?”

“From a cow,” I answered.

“He was stampeded by Ole Reverend Malone’s cow. And not just once, either, but twice! He never stood a chance.”

“How awful to die like that,” Marci exclaimed. “How old was he anyway, about twenty seven?”

“No,” I laughed, “I think he was more like fifty three or something."

Marci had a somewhat warped sense of age and dying. She was convinced that no human could live beyond the age of twenty nine. Where she got such a concept nobody was quite sure, but she was positively sure of it.

 Logic and common sense should have given her a clue as to the error in her thinking. More than three quarters of the population of our small community of Spreighton was over the age of forty.

"This", she explained, "is simply a freakish act of nature."

She was quite certain she didn't have much time left herself, as she was already twenty one.

Each morning she stood in the hallway of her uncle’s home and stared into the large full length mirror, carefully examining herself.

A wrinkle here, a gray hair there; all signs of aging. She was certain she was going down fast.

“Millie,” she said, “did you know I forgot my pen at Mrs. Adams place yesterday. It’s a sure thing I’m losing my mind. I hear that’s what happens just before you die. You lose your memory and then you’re dead.”

“Oh Marci quit,” I scolded, “I forget things all the time. It doesn’t mean anything except maybe sometimes I’m a bit forgetful. You shouldn’t worry so.”

Marci looked at me, shaking her finger and pointing,

“You see there Millie, you’re losing your mind too. Maybe we’ll go out together, just like best friends ought to. Do you think tomorrow you and I could go out and find a real nice plot of land where we can be buried?

 I would hate to end up in some old pasture with weeds growing up everywhere. It’s a good idea to be prepared for that big day when it does come.

 Maybe your little sister Martha Jane can come along. She’s younger and will still be around after we’re gone. We can put her in charge of all the business.”

Not wanting to get into a long conversation about something so ridiculously crazy, I simply nodded politely and agreed.

“I wonder what they’re going to do with Marty’s body.” I asked.

Marty is what everybody called Mr. Jones, everybody except Marci.

 She insisted on calling him Martin. It was more dignified sounding to her.

With her eyes opened as wide as she could get them, she replied,

“I heard him saying, not too long ago that, when it came his time to go, he wanted to be put into one of those big ole furnace thingies and burned up to a crisp.”

"Don't you mean cremation?” I asked.

“No,” she replied fanatically, “I mean burnt, burnt up like a roasted pig.”

I looked at her and smiled, I refused to explain any further.

“Well, that’s not the story I heard.” I said. “I heard he donated his body to science so college students could cut him to pieces.”

“Well, what on earth would he do that for? It makes no sense, none at all,” winced Marci.

I answered with a sinister grin,

“Well, I think he thought it might make him immortal or something.”

Marci looked at me with the funniest look on her face and exclaimed,

“Immoral, why on earth would he want to be immoral? He could have done all that immoral stuff while he was still living, couldn't he?”

“Not immoral goose brains, immortal.

It means to live forever.” I explained.

“Well now, that’s just plain silly. Doesn’t seem to have worked out so well for him, does it?”

“No Marci, it doesn’t.”

Author's Note

Have you ever had a friend like Marci?

Reviews

[Woody]

sadly, I don't think I have. it's rather fun to have someone like her around.
you tell such a sweet story Mike, not devoid of humour. you created endearing characters. you can't help but like Marci, simple as she is.

[emmajoy]

' “I never said he fell off his horse. I said, 'he died.'” “Well then, if he didn’t fall off his horse,” she asked, “what did he die from?” “From a cow,” I answered. '

Laughed and laughed at this tale.. not in a mean way, never that but because you've made this friendship so very special. Marci and Millie - such wonderful friends, the one seemingly innocent in her thinking, the other so accepting and affectionate! Your own sense of humour shines in this, certain phrases,
' Do you think tomorrow you and I could go out and find a real nice plot of land where we can be buried? I would hate to end up in some old pasture with weeds growing up everywhere. '

You and Sam Dickens have a way of creating place and person, i envy your gift, envy your start, finish and of course, brilliant in between!

And yes, have a couple of friends like this.. love them to bits!

[Marie]

No I have not. I do have a friend who introduced herself to be as Minnie,andthough that wasn't her real name, and I never knew why. Nor can I ever figure out what she's talking about.