The Whale, Chapter 4

Helga drove a ’97 Buick Skylark that was made in heaven. That’s how she felt about it, anyhow: Cloudy blue and well-traveled, A ding on every corner but nothing Serious, nothing in need of attention. It looked good in the garage’s shadows And was malaise-proof in the midday sun. She popped the trunk and laid the gun Gently in among the bags And blankets and jumper cables neatly Coiled there. What was it Chekhov said? If jumper cables are seen in chapter one A battery must die in chapter two? Such was the nature of Helga’s musings Based on long ago perusings Of Russian authors assigned in college When she and Joe rushed in like fools Not fearing to tread where angels danced Across the border into Idaho To get married and start a crazy life. She took a deep breath and firmly shut The trunk, not sure exactly what She’d do with the gun but definitely not Take it to the shooting range Where she and Ben had gone to try it out A few weeks back and there encountered Some good old boys talking old boy s**t About Ms. Harris sleeping her way To the top of the pile of political hay And how she was "woke and a joke." "Not bad looking, but come on." Ben had spoken up and simply said, "She sure did hand that guy his ass in the debate." Helga had simply reddened with blue anger. The cardboard target with paper bullseye Stapled on made Helga’s mental sky Conjure up a poster of the buffoon Holding a bible upside down, Captioned, "Make America Pray Again." "I'd like to staple his face on the carboard," She thought, "And shoot. And shoot again." That was her idea of the morning But now with the golden sun adorning The autumnal south, she revised her plan And decided to take what was left of Joe (His ashes, that is) and the heavy gun And lovingly release them into the flow Of the deep and powerful Columbia River. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe