Peter Scotchmer’s latest short story introduces us to Wilf Wolflinger, apparently the smartest man on the street.
My name is Wilf Wolflinger. You might have heard of me. I used to write travel books, but I’m too old for that now. My travelling days– to Bogota or Bogdanovich, to Cairo or Kaladar, some of which were quite fictional, are now over, or perhaps more accurately, limited to a walk out back to my deck, sauna in the cooler weather, where I read what I wrote years ago with growing appreciation and respect. The neighbourhood in which I live consists of retired people whose grandchildren mercifully visit infrequently, but when they do, the thump of basketballs can be heard pounding streets and driveways alike for far too long. I like to remind their parents that I have no grandchildren and am grateful for it, so I do not contribute to the racket. I am proud of that. It is one way I know I am superior to them all. But it has all changed now for me, ever since the Lintotts moved in next door.
What kind of an Ironist are You?
“So, how’s the wife?” Eric the husband says whenever he sees me, Never, “how are you?” so I respond, every time, with “Same as ever.” No, I never ask him how his wife is, as he is uninterested in anyone else, unlike me. He is, I think, borderline “mentally challenged,” to use the phrase the shrinks use, as I found out on the internet. Just now, saw him over the fence. He calls out “How’s the wife?” yet again. I answer “Same as ever,” which seems to satisfy him, as always, as his nods and smiles are quite predictable. I wonder what he would say if I answered, “Her cancer is now untreatable,” or “They’re taking her leg off next week.” I’d love to watch his reaction. But then I’d have to tell him it’s a joke, and I couldn’t do that: he doesn’t have a sense of humour at all, anyways. His wife plays country music loudly, so she’s beyond the pale. His dog barks all the time. He is overweight, eats too much crap, no doubt. He can’t even whistle properly. His cheerfulness is deeply annoying. It was only yesterday, as I was setting off for church, that he called out “How’s the wife?” I shut the car door and pretended not to hear him. I don’t take the bus any more: it’s either too late or too slow, or both, and I got places to be and things to do. The people at the bus stop are absolute morons. “A wet day, eh?” said one of them when it was raining. All the others nodded, just like robots. Why make a comment on something obvious? Dumb, dumb, dumb! Says one of them, “I see you’re wearing socks today” as if the guy usually wears snowshoes! I ask you. Another one tells the woman waiting in line, “So today’s the longest day of the year. Tomorrow will be shorter” No kidding! And the day after that, even shorter! Wonders never cease! Then we got kids on the bus from the public housing nearby. They swear, fight, try to get on without paying, and that was it. Bus driver did nothing. Now I drive. But then there’s idiots on the road, too…
At church, I thanked God I was not like other people, so many losers everywhere. That French guy got it right. He said, “Hell is other people.” How right he was: that fat woman, the old fellow who farts, the minister who sniffs, the women who tart themselves up just because it’s Sunday! I wear a T-shirt and jeans there, just as I do at home. I ducked out early before the collection plate passed. Everyone wants free money: why should I have to provide it?
As I was putting the car in the garage, Lintott sauntered in. “How’s the wife?” again. The same idiotic grin on his face. What a fool. Doesn’t know she moved out weeks ago. I’ve no idea why. I stopped listening to her whining a long time ago. It’s her loss, not mine.
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Contributed by
Peter Scotchmer
