A Letter to the Gubamint

A Letter to the Gubamint

by

Phillip McCollum

Darryl was already agitated when Karrie insisted on digging into him some more.

“You think they care? You’re wastin’ your time!”

Over the years, Darryl had figured out that holding his tongue and letting his wife air out her feelings was the quickest way to resolution, but by God, she never made it easy.

“Instead of fiddlin’ ‘round with that, maybe you ought to help me put this diaper on,” she continued.

His pencil poked through the paper several times, leaving tiny holes in his anxious words.

“If they do anything, they’ll send some men in some suits and sunglasses down here and haul you away. And then how am I s’posed to take care of Kenny?” His wife laughed without taking a breath. “Not that much would change eitherways.”

The lead finally snapped off the end of the pencil and Darryl slapped it down on the tiny table extending from the wall of their imitation Airstream trailer.

“Dang it, woman! Don’t you think someone with some special firepower ought to know about this? I ain’t got enough ammo to take ‘em all on myself. And ‘sides, they’re probably invincible to the kind of bullets they sell at Walmart.”

“They ain’t gonna believe you,” Karrie replied. She stood a whole three feet from him, hovering over a pot of boiling water, emptying a blue box of macaroni and cheese with one hand and holding Kenny in the other. The boy was squirming and yelping as his feet dangled inches from the hot steam.

“Ha!” he erupted. “Shows what you know. Who do you think knows about ‘em if it ain’t the gubamint?”

Finally, she shut her lips. Darryl yanked off his green-and-yellow trucker hat, grabbed the back of his neck and twisted his head around to release some tension. He stood and proceeded to pull open every drawer in the place, all three of them, rummaging through while tossing aside expired coupons and Karrie’s unread issues of The Enquirer.

He slammed the last drawer back into its place. The knob came flying off and bounced onto the floor. “Ain’t we got more than one dang pencil in this place?”

“You want to write that letter so gawt-dang bad, go and get one from the scary neighbors,” she said. “I’m busy puttin’ food on the table and takin’ care of our son.”

If you’d like to finish reading this story, along with many others, I’d be ecstatic if you’d consider purchasing one of my books.

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