[Written circa 2006. In the style of Francois Rabelais’ Gargantua and Pantegruel]
Trousers Forlorn (or, Pantagruel’s Brother)
by Playing together by ourselves.
by Playing together by ourselves.
William willied about at his grandmother’s side, then veered left with such suddenness she noticed him gone only after he’d traversed the entire length of the courtyard. She called after him, entreated him to show himself, begged in strong voice for him to unconceal his whereabouts, and when she fell down in exhaustion, she still had not seen him and never would. He never did discover his grandmere’s death and never inquired. Her treatment of him had been questionable at best, and he gratefully adopted his new lifestyle and adapted to it with a will and with pleasure.
His new lifestyle consisted of going where he pleased. Now, aged four and a half, he walked out of the courtyard door, over a short stretch of lawn, and into the surrounding woods that stretched all the way from Inverness to the city of Clovedairyfurt, where he survived by his wits alone until fishermen found him a year later, dirty, hot, hungry, bepissed and singing, singing a little ditty to himself as if he had not a care in the world.
He had met people on the way during that year. He was now five and a half years and quite capable, thank you very much, of taking care of himself and his bodily needs, such as toilet functions, self feeding, and washing when he happened across clean water. He had learned to approach a tree, look on the other side of it for strange presences, piss, shake before replacement into trousers and even effectively button. Trousers, I might say, which now looked rather ratty and forlorn, but still nevertheless served their purposes. Since it was cold and November, he had stuffed grasses inside them when his underwear gave out. These grasses stuck out at odd angles from his breaches and made him resemble nothing so much as a scarecrow, but one with a happy look and a penchant for travel.
Tall for his age, he limped from a fall he had once taken, and that limitation he never overcame. Nor physician ever healed him of it. No spa managed to correct it, spiritual advisement did no good against it and even prayerful intercession failed to disturb its permanence. Lame, a begger, William sullied the air with his game gait, sallying forth from A heading for B at the most unexpected, and sometimes even awkward, times.
Once, within the kindly, motherly limbs of an armadillo that had protected him from the bites of savage wolves, he leapt up and left without any explanation. Another time, sleeping in a foetal position at the feet of the piano player, Billigan Jones, he sat upright, bumped his head on the underside of the instrument, swore, as he had heard others in the juke joint do, and wandered out on his own in the snow, never to be seen again by the people who had sustained him, body and soul, for the past three or four weeks. Time and again he simply cut himself off from further communications by taking up his belongings and heading down the highway.
He preferred paths through the woods, shortcuts of various sorts, and hayricks if any were to be found. Once, sleeping under one such a four-wheeled contraption in widow Misrely‘s farm field, he awoke with a start, deeply anxious suddenly about the state of his health. His grubby shoes had not fit for some time and, his head still in by now filthy bandages, he knew he looked a sight, and he knew also that he had begun to limp on both sides. What a creature he must appear to others, he thought, to the good and the reputable, the sure and the certain, the secure and the saved. He determined forthwith, and from that very moment on, to never again go about in any gangly fashion, with no awkwardness of gait or dress.
Therefore, to bring his personal decision to fruition, he had either to cease walking or to hide his stumbling, and he had to go naked to keep from looking ragged. He presented himself in such guise tor the next two decades and practiced the skill set he had determined to master. Naked, he eventually cut quite a figure. Men, even, turned to look when he passed, whistling. Ladies, usually given to carefulness and propriety as should be, sang out their surprise upon first glimpsing him at a distance of even a quarter mile, called out for him to come to them that instant, spoke with clarion insistence that they were in need of him at the present moment, not withstanding the time of day, be it supper, or lunch, or breakfast, or bedtime snack. They wished to have a closer inspection of him and remained unsatisfied till they’d taken it.
He obliged them rather than end up in trouble. This solved his dilemma of having to run as fast as his legs would carry him to get away. Solved also his dilemma of the great likelihood of getting crushed under the hooves of flailing horses who sensed their mistresses distress and bolted or, neighing, stood on hind legs, front hooves flailing, to master their own growing unease. Fixed things which tended to get out of hand when ladies did not get their way at the moment they wished to have it.
When William came over to them on the other sides of roads, or in hayricks, or in the covered appurtenances within which their husbands had left them waiting outside of bank or pub, they closely looked him up and down first for a full fifteen seconds, handled his sides and fronts with gloved fingers for the next twenty five or more, threw him roughly down between seats after a quick peep outside to determine the possible approach of husbands or beaus and, lifting dresses and drawing down drawers, rode breakneck along, the horses standing still, leaning bravely over him as if they themselves were trained equestrians. That done, they usually let him go with the double remonstrance that they were ladies, and being so—that is, privileged—that he tell no one or come to great harm.
Still, naked improved on ragged. He preferred the former. Tired, he sometimes lay down on the ground only to wake with interference going on around him. Skirts twirled above him or trousers fell about his features in his sudden waking alertness. This and that occurred which he never initiated. His response was simply to bury himself deeper in the woods, further into impenetrability, much more out-of-the-way than his former approachability. So, eventually, he became a wandering hermit, seldom seen, never encountered and even less often the recipient of intercourse, regardless of the eloquence of the interlocutor. He came to no harm, and lived to a ripe old age. I should mention that when he turned thirty three, he gave up his retiring habits and re-entered society. He now works for Revenue Canada. He sweeps rooms, and cleans toilets and regales others there, in their stalls, males and females both, with accounts of his formative years. He smokes cheap cigars which smell up the place, but so what, he says, smiling secretively all to himself.
His new lifestyle consisted of going where he pleased. Now, aged four and a half, he walked out of the courtyard door, over a short stretch of lawn, and into the surrounding woods that stretched all the way from Inverness to the city of Clovedairyfurt, where he survived by his wits alone until fishermen found him a year later, dirty, hot, hungry, bepissed and singing, singing a little ditty to himself as if he had not a care in the world.
He had met people on the way during that year. He was now five and a half years and quite capable, thank you very much, of taking care of himself and his bodily needs, such as toilet functions, self feeding, and washing when he happened across clean water. He had learned to approach a tree, look on the other side of it for strange presences, piss, shake before replacement into trousers and even effectively button. Trousers, I might say, which now looked rather ratty and forlorn, but still nevertheless served their purposes. Since it was cold and November, he had stuffed grasses inside them when his underwear gave out. These grasses stuck out at odd angles from his breaches and made him resemble nothing so much as a scarecrow, but one with a happy look and a penchant for travel.
Tall for his age, he limped from a fall he had once taken, and that limitation he never overcame. Nor physician ever healed him of it. No spa managed to correct it, spiritual advisement did no good against it and even prayerful intercession failed to disturb its permanence. Lame, a begger, William sullied the air with his game gait, sallying forth from A heading for B at the most unexpected, and sometimes even awkward, times.
Once, within the kindly, motherly limbs of an armadillo that had protected him from the bites of savage wolves, he leapt up and left without any explanation. Another time, sleeping in a foetal position at the feet of the piano player, Billigan Jones, he sat upright, bumped his head on the underside of the instrument, swore, as he had heard others in the juke joint do, and wandered out on his own in the snow, never to be seen again by the people who had sustained him, body and soul, for the past three or four weeks. Time and again he simply cut himself off from further communications by taking up his belongings and heading down the highway.
He preferred paths through the woods, shortcuts of various sorts, and hayricks if any were to be found. Once, sleeping under one such a four-wheeled contraption in widow Misrely‘s farm field, he awoke with a start, deeply anxious suddenly about the state of his health. His grubby shoes had not fit for some time and, his head still in by now filthy bandages, he knew he looked a sight, and he knew also that he had begun to limp on both sides. What a creature he must appear to others, he thought, to the good and the reputable, the sure and the certain, the secure and the saved. He determined forthwith, and from that very moment on, to never again go about in any gangly fashion, with no awkwardness of gait or dress.
Therefore, to bring his personal decision to fruition, he had either to cease walking or to hide his stumbling, and he had to go naked to keep from looking ragged. He presented himself in such guise tor the next two decades and practiced the skill set he had determined to master. Naked, he eventually cut quite a figure. Men, even, turned to look when he passed, whistling. Ladies, usually given to carefulness and propriety as should be, sang out their surprise upon first glimpsing him at a distance of even a quarter mile, called out for him to come to them that instant, spoke with clarion insistence that they were in need of him at the present moment, not withstanding the time of day, be it supper, or lunch, or breakfast, or bedtime snack. They wished to have a closer inspection of him and remained unsatisfied till they’d taken it.
He obliged them rather than end up in trouble. This solved his dilemma of having to run as fast as his legs would carry him to get away. Solved also his dilemma of the great likelihood of getting crushed under the hooves of flailing horses who sensed their mistresses distress and bolted or, neighing, stood on hind legs, front hooves flailing, to master their own growing unease. Fixed things which tended to get out of hand when ladies did not get their way at the moment they wished to have it.
When William came over to them on the other sides of roads, or in hayricks, or in the covered appurtenances within which their husbands had left them waiting outside of bank or pub, they closely looked him up and down first for a full fifteen seconds, handled his sides and fronts with gloved fingers for the next twenty five or more, threw him roughly down between seats after a quick peep outside to determine the possible approach of husbands or beaus and, lifting dresses and drawing down drawers, rode breakneck along, the horses standing still, leaning bravely over him as if they themselves were trained equestrians. That done, they usually let him go with the double remonstrance that they were ladies, and being so—that is, privileged—that he tell no one or come to great harm.
Still, naked improved on ragged. He preferred the former. Tired, he sometimes lay down on the ground only to wake with interference going on around him. Skirts twirled above him or trousers fell about his features in his sudden waking alertness. This and that occurred which he never initiated. His response was simply to bury himself deeper in the woods, further into impenetrability, much more out-of-the-way than his former approachability. So, eventually, he became a wandering hermit, seldom seen, never encountered and even less often the recipient of intercourse, regardless of the eloquence of the interlocutor. He came to no harm, and lived to a ripe old age. I should mention that when he turned thirty three, he gave up his retiring habits and re-entered society. He now works for Revenue Canada. He sweeps rooms, and cleans toilets and regales others there, in their stalls, males and females both, with accounts of his formative years. He smokes cheap cigars which smell up the place, but so what, he says, smiling secretively all to himself.
by Trucker Travis T Teimer
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