It's a Mystery

As I sit here, leaned back in my desk chair, a frequently visited position where I might from time-to-time perchance a nap, I contemplated entering the zany conversation contest. I asked my wife, “Do I know zany-speak?” She’s still laughing. I still don’t get it. She vacillates. I wonder if there’s something wrong with people who laugh at you one second and give you the I-am-not-amused face the next, back and forth. It’s like her face is made of rubber. Beautiful rubber, but rubber.

And then I tell a joke and get zip. Did you know that ZIP Code came from Zone Improvement Plan? That it’s constinaniment with zip, like in fast, bonused by zippidee-doo-dah – My oh my what a beautiful day. Sing along with me.

“There’s a piece missing from this puzzle!” I declare, soliciting another I-am-not-amused face. I’m pretty sure somebody (there are only two of us in this house!) periodically removes jigsaw pieces from the table, replacing them in the night.

Why are puzzles so hard? My next one is going to be one piece, not one thousand – one. Take it out of the box. Put it on the table. Done! There, I’ve accomplished something, finished the puzzle. I bet they’d sell like hot potatoes.

Anyway, back to the zany. I don’t think I could do it, write a zany piece.

What if you bought a book, hardback or paperback, it wouldn’t matter, just not an ebook. Then it would matter. The title and descriptors (doesn’t that make you think of dinosaurs?) plainly tell you that it’s a mystery, a who-dun-it. It’s a fantastic read: the hook, the writing, the vocabulary, the absence of adverbial hiccups – the real deal. (Don’t you just loathe and despise worn-out clichés and expressions? You can’t just water-off-a-duck’s-back them.)

You’re readin’ away, bouncin’ on your quads, your sphincter titillated. (If you don’t know what that is, don’t look it up – trust me. Don’t you hate when people say trust me? You automatically don’t trust them.) But there you are, the book is coming to a close. You fan the remaining pages thinking to yourself, “Man, (insert author name) better get to it. Not many pages left. The killer could be any of four, maybe five people – has to be. Surely the author wouldn’t pull a fast one and introduce someone from left field? Why is it always left field? Why not right field? Or the dugout, or the bleachers?

Not only does the author have to convince us who did the dastardly deed, but we have yet to learn the how or the why. Jeez-Louise. And there’s only one more page! Six hundred and more pages, an investment of weeks of reading and you are ready for your reward.

You turn the page dumbfounded… Now that gets me every time. Found dumb? Speechless? Full of past tense flabbergast? Who thought up that word, anyway? While your eyes want to focus on the words on the top line of the even-numbered page to the left, they can’t. All they see is the jagged edge of the obviously ripped-out last page, no, make that ripped-out last three pages. The last three pages of the book are gone, torn asunder. What does that mean, anyway? Asunder?

The author, in three pages, six, actually, could have done it – solved the mystery and all the ancillary questions. I could get my satisfaction. I can’t get no! Nah, nah nah, nah, nah. That’s what I sa-ay. ’Cause I try an’ I try an’ I try… Uh, sorry.

I refrain myself. I don’t get it. How can anyone verse or phrase of a song or a poem themselves? And if I can be refrained, can I be frained? How would I even start? I refrain myself from shouting: “There’s missing pages!” – The dreaded I-am-not-amused face.

I don’t even want to read the even-numbered page that is there. I’m outta my chair and out the door. Goin’ to the library to read the end of the story… the rest of the story as Paul Harvey would say. And if the library… why does library need two ‘r’s? Like February. Nobody says Feb-ru-ary.

Both copies of the library book are checked out. On to the bookstore. I bought my copy through Amazon, but I won’t tell that to the bookstore people. I’m just gonna take it off the shelf and read the ending right there. I already bought the book once. But it’s an old book, published several years ago and the store doesn’t have it.

Back home, still fuming… Why am I fuming? There are no fumes, not even vapors. And I’m not expressing anything, just walking from the car to the house. But I’m fuming. I learn from an on-line search that many people have a similar complaint about the book – ripped-out pages. Not completing that search, I immediately order a free Kindle copy via Kindle-Unlimited. I know, I shoulda done that first. Can’t rip out pages of an ebook.

Finally… scrolling exasperatingly, I get to page 641 only to see electronically torn-out pages. Along the left margin are the beginnings of thirty-one words, with a couple complete words: ‘a’ or ‘an’. I toss the tablet over my head, hearing it land on the jigsaw table, pieces cascading to the floor, all the missing pieces, no doubt. After a labored breath, I pick up my paperback copy to read the unread page 640. Maybe the author has clues, or some sort of explanation. Nope.

I make a stiff drink – cherry Kool-aid with only two-thirds the prescribed water. I chugged it down, grimacing. Red-eye rotgut. I would slam the glass down, but boy, would I get a I-am-not-amused face from doing that! Back on line… I’m wantin’ to get my gun. Take this mystery out to the backyard and blast the fire out of it… the author’s idea of a cliffhanger… “Be sure to get ‘The Revenge of Elmer Fudd’, soon coming to bookstores near you!”

“Honey? You should read this novel. It’s a mystery and you’ll never guess the ending,” I frain and look for my leaning-back desk chair where I might repose once more, again.

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Zany Conversations with Ourselves contest entry
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photo is my own
constinaniment - consistent (loosely)
refrain -
noun: a short part of a song or poem that is repeated, especially between the verses
verb: to keep oneself from doing, feeling, or indulging in something and especially from following a passing impulse

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A mystery, but I redunciate

It's a Mystery

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