When Durbie comes for dinner
Hello dear readers. I wonder if I might take up a few moments of your time to talk about Durbie – a loafer, parasite, vagabond and miscreant and probably my greatest friend. How to describe him? Have you ever met a moody beaver, King Street West and Spadina? Oh sure, you probably just put the moodiness down to beaver disgruntlement at the lack of cost effective devices to control objectionable flooding in local wetlands. You would be mistaken however. You did in fact see Durbie, his face all screwed up in the manner of a disgruntled beaver, round shouldered and hairy, shuffling along the street, probably going home to his mama. Yes he still lives with his mama. And she lives with her mama who lives on her own except for these two.
He comes around a lot for dinner. He always brings a gift. Last night he brought a lava lamp. Sadly it had no plug. But this did not put a dampener on the fun as my wife Nicvarlexzcaka and I listened in awe as Durbie described in detail ‘a doughy-like material at the bottom releasing blobs like dough balls that rise and float away, almost like lumps of dough wasting tax payers money when released by astronauts in a space capsule.’ The image was powerful. Nicvarlexzcaka wept.
Dinner was served. We all gorged ourselves greedily on Bumsy’s (my nickname for my wife) Moldavian winter stew. A colon-choking mix of raw goat, potato peelings, carrot shavings, onions, bacon fat, onions, all boiled to death in a pan of water. With a garnish of onions. Bumsy informed us that it was best to eat it quickly ‘before the body know’ and that we aid in its descent with a glass of vodka ‘for flavour.’ I have to admit I have not adjusted quickly to Bumsy’s culinary delights, although I have adjusted my trousers to deal with the quick exit to the washroom.
Durbie, however, delights in Bumsy’s cooking and while chewing and gasping he would expound on a number of topics – love, family, sex, his feet and always posing perplexing problems-
‘They say that love is like a toilet roll. So what is marriage?’
‘A plunger?’ I volunteered.
‘It is an anti-bacterial wipe is it not?’ barked Bumsy with a rasping bass vibrato, like a tank struggling up a dirt bank.
‘No.’ Announced Durbie. ‘It is clearly the toilet chain.’
He was of course right and we had to bow to his wisdom.
After he had shown us his bare feet (he always does after dinner) we retired to the recliners for more conversation and vodka and Pepto Bismol. Durbie has opinions on everything and they are invariably original and astonishing. Here is just a little taste of his many and varied opinions.
On cars – I loathe all cars, all of them, except perhaps the green ones.’
On politics – I trust politicians less than I trust a raccoon to guard my cheese collection.’
On cheese – Soft cheese is the best as the hard stuff adversely affects my extravagant dentals.’
In this way hours passed like minutes and before we knew it we were all laughing so hard I thought I was going to have a breakdown. It was Durbie who started the chuckle. I followed on his tail and Bumsy, reluctant at first, was teased gently in until we were all rolling around the floor in paroxysms of pleasure. We picked Durbie up, put his coat, socks and shoes on and lead him laughing to the door and out onto the street. We shut the door behind him and wiped the tears from our eyes.
She looked at me. ‘Why the laugh so hard?’ she barked.
I stared back, then shook my head sadly. ‘I…don’t…know.’
We hugged, long and hard. Then, exhausted, we plodded wearily upstairs to bed.
Now you may ask -Is Durbie a hopeless individual? Yes. Is he totally lacking in attractive qualities? Indubitably. Is he a loafer? I should say so. He may be all these things and more, but even with all these bad points you have to say that…uh…well…he’s also got terrible feet.
Oh well. I guess I just feel sorry for him really. If life was a bowl of cherries he’d be a pip that sticks in your throat, or maybe a small brown stain on the bowl. Either way, he’s back tomorrow night…
Why me, dear readers, why me?