If It’s Sentimental, It’s Country, If It’s Crazy, It’s Bluegrass

If It’s Sentimental, It’s Country,

If It’s Crazy, It’s Bluegrass

       By I. O. U. Glasreimer

“I hate to tell you this,” Singh Assingh sighed and crossed himself, then sat down cross legged on the shag rug. “Shagging is a sin!” Assingh was talking to his daughter, the youngest of twelve children, and his junior by twenty-five years. Dharwhalla Assingh coughed and fanned her hand before her nose as if to say, “Too much information! Too much information!” She looked at herself in the mirror she held before returning her attention to her father.

       “Father,” she said, bowing a little to let him know that she had no intention of disrespecting him, now or ever, “I am not a child any more!” She stroked his arm hair and pulled at a few of them. She smoothed his bangs and rubbed his temples.

“I know a little of the world! I have had boyfriends before, including Pickhjle Sninjeesingh who walked with me from school three times in the past three months. I have traveled to my home village of Pningjamkaratje, and by myself I might remind you. I have looked in the mirror at whatever there is of myself to see. I have given grandmother assistance going to the bathroom twice, once in circumstances you would not care to hear about or have me spread abroad. Among other things, I have walked at night the length of our street when all the world but the nefarious slept and snored, and I have come to no harm. I am not either easily ashamed nor quickly embarrassed. I love the realms of opportunity available to myself at my tender age, knowing that I am nearly unassailable and quick to learn.” She bowed a second time by way of period to her speech and then waited for her father to reply, which he did with alacrity.

       “Child!” he said. “What terror in your young breast might cause you to address your paternal father in those terms! Have I not taken care of you all your twelve years? Have I not carried you in my arms since you were no bigger than a grasshopper? Have I not paid for your clothing--rich apparel, I might add--gotten you good neighbors, arranged fine entertainments for your diversion on dozens of occasions, played beggar to your princely needs, whispered in your ear to help you hear better, knitted my brows when earth seemed too heavy for your small frame and, your shoulders bowed, you were about to drift out of it into some unknown realm, waked nights to feed you, whacked at intruders who would try to sneak in to see you gently breathing, as the primary angel, under your sleepy quilts, and done such wonders to give life wealth for you that I am now a rather exhausted man?” He stopped. He rested, for his speech had been lengthy, he played with his food, and he looked at his watch. The tick of his eyebrow busied itself as he waited for a reply. His sweat and her natural perfume scented the side room and yet he waited. A spicy lemon tree grew nearly to the ceiling in one corner, its extra dark leaves large and heavy. She waited, too, thinking for a moment about what her father had said.

         Now the time had come for her to leave for school. So saying, she offered not one word more but proceeded to dress herself while her father exhorted.

“Squeegy, listen to me!” Nothing, except the preparation of her person.

       “Bullocks, come, don’t be angry!” He watched her intently for signs of irritation. She merely shrugged her small shoulders and went on with her ablutions. She put a drop of perfume in her bosoms; she touched lipstick to her upper and lower lips. She sniffed lightly at her arms to see if need existed there for any intercession.

       “Don’t go off leaving me upset, Riffles!” She smiled once at him, quickly, without sincerity, and he writhed in fear.

       “Sniglet, come here and hug your pa,” Assingh called out to her, unashamed of the break in his voice. She sighed, relented, walked over, and hugged him for a brief moment, and then strongly for half a minute. He felt much better, and sighed, too, and said, “Well, okay, if that’s what you want, then go ahead. You have my blessing.” With that he left the room and caught the bus to work.

       Assingh felt his thirty-seven years. His secretary with her grey eyebrows and bulky sweater did nothing to lift his spirits. He greeted her as he passed her desk, checked his mail slot, entered his office and locked the door. After he had cried, he ate two chocolates from the box in the drawer and worked till noon. He met a business buddy at the Sliminjihujh Palace for crepes and coffee. This time he ordered a little brandy as an aperitif

       “What will you have yourself?” he asked Shagjhwalla, who had such an appetite that Assingh could never believe it from one noon to the next. He loved to watch this man eat. Not once did Shag speak a word of relenting or regret for his hunger.

“A little brandy, too, would be in order, I think,” Shagjhwalla whistled through his teeth, and grinned. His tiny mouth had the oddest way of smiling straight. He could not lift the corners of his lips.

“And then, after the chicken, a glass of port I will have,” that fat person said and wiped his mouth.

“What is wrong with you today?” Shagjhwalla asked Assingh. He had just finished a snack of garlic chiggers and yam ‘n cloves, with a glass of limewater to wash the spices down. Assingh let a tear fall, wiped it away, and then confided in his friend.

 “Don’t stop her, man!" the fat one said. “Look at the world we grew up in! What’s the matter with you! We always wanted, don’t you recall? Jeez! Remember the busty black girl in the crane yards near the school? Recess, you recall, we’d go and look through her fence and see her there on a hot day? Sun bathing? Eh? Can’t you just remember how much we wanted her? And we were thirteen. Lord, if such a chance had befallen us we would have grabbed it by the henchbones and snacked till the bell at end of recess rang. Don’t tell her not to. Tell her, ‘Go’!” He looked right at Assingh with his cayenne eyes almost hidden in folds as he helped himself to the last of the peppery mango pickle in the potato chutney. Assingh felt nauseated by the smell of less than fresh condiment and rose to go.

“I’ll pay,” he said, and the fat friend nodded and continued finishing the food in the little dishes.

“Are you up for lunch tomorrow?” Assingh asked, and the other said nothing but gave out that he was. “Well, then, tomorrow.” He walked out into the sun. The grass along the boulevards reminded him of shag rug and thick bedding. They might cut that now and then, he whined to himself. When he got back to his office, his secretary was gone. She returned a half hour late and seemed pleased, somehow, a state unusual for her. She treated her boss with special kindness the rest of the day, but Assignh would not get his spirits to lift and went home sad when six o’clock came.