I Have To Work On My Spleen
By Lou Blodgett
At times, I have let my spleen take over.
My spleen vents more often than others.
I admit that sometimes I’m insufferable, even to my own spleen.
My spleen was on layover in Peoria once. (Why? I don’t know. I have no idea what spleens do, least of all my own.) It called Mary from the airport. This was long after we’d split up. Me and Mary. It told her that it missed her, and they got together and talked for ages. Nothing else happened, or so my spleen insists.
My spleen can be quite charming.
I was really upset upon hearing, recently, that my spleen almost caused an international incident in the capital of Espera awhile back. (You know, well after the country opened up, then became fashionable with a street-hockey connection. This happened well after all that. Now the capital’s all neon.) It wound up in the back of a cop car, blotto, at midnight, flashing money around as if that would help. Never heard how my spleen got out of that mess.
At least on some subjects, my spleen can be quite tight-lipped.
My spleen got certification in heating and air conditioning, and this was back at a time when I wasn’t even missing it from my chest and hadn’t yet heard any reports, or even rumors. And what really pisses me off about it all is it was a very constructive thing to do, and that I wish I’d done it. Especially considering what I was doing that month- which was following a movie-string deep into the career of Audrey Tautou and binging on Triscuits and cottage cheese.
Now my spleen has the training that can get it a job that starts at four thousand dollars a month. And I doubt I’ll see any of that money.
My spleen runs hot and cold.
My spleen is not my own. They say that I have no control over my spleen, and they are correct. Take this as a warning. Things like this can happen if you vent your spleen too often.
Got a notice from the Greyhound station. If I clear up a locker opening fee and pay shipping, they will return my duffel bag. It contains a change of clothes, toiletries, what’s left of a nine-ounce pack of vanilla wafers, and a dog-eared edition of “In Watermelon Sugar”. My spleen had to have borrowed it and left it at the station, but I have no idea what it was doing in Tulsa.
My spleen is well traveled, and is quite well-read.
My spleen was the seventh caller for the trivia question on the channel 8 news show, and it had the correct answer. Something about Yellowstone? Anyway, my spleen got a gift certificate to Rowe’s Shoes and spent it on a bright yellow pair of Nikes.
My spleen has shoes. I didn’t even know spleens had feet. Does anyone else have this problem? A wandering spleen? The last thing I need is to have a shod spleen.
Then I ran into Mary at Taco John’s. We sat and had taco burgers. I thought we might get back together, but all she could talk about was my spleen.
My spleen stole one of my lost flames! My spleen sleeps past noon. My spleen ‘knows people’. I’m less and less surprised.
Tom Hanks called, and once he knew it was me, said that he always wanted to meet “the man behind the spleen”. I didn’t even know that a person could be that, and that I was. And now I have to tell my spleen that it’s in the next ‘project’.
Perhaps it has something to do with his vaudeville talents.
My spleen won second place on the show “Golden Opportunity”, spinning plates last March. They gave it a 200 dollar check, a medium-sized trophy, and a kiss on each cheek. I haven’t seen it, though. William Morris called. I’m now answering the phone: “New phone. That’s not my spleen”, but people see right through it. Then the television station called, wanting to know if my spleen has ever earned over a thousand dollars a year spinning plates. Because that would disqualify it. And I don’t know. So, I guess, that’s a negative. And they were all, like: “You didn’t know? It’s on You-Tube!” I rolled my eyes. They told me that I have to watch it. That it’s mystical. Then I hung up on them.
My spleen is quite dexterous. I live in trepidation.
I’m concerned about my spleen, and, surely, no doctor can help me.
Last Tuesday, some friendly-scary well-dressed men came to the door looking for my spleen, which isn’t home very often. They showed me badges that I didn’t even know existed and asked a lot of questions. They said that they got a hold of an interview of my spleen that had been conducted for the next Sunday New York Times and found that it knew a lot about some Chinese missile program. More than they knew- and way more than any gland should know. They left a card. Next time I see my spleen, I’ll hand the card over with a wincing shrug.