March 5
by Max Beardslee

Presenting a tongue in cheek love story, taking place in northern Minnesota.

I found myself chuckling for several days over the punch line I’d heard, then constructed a story to work it in. Hope you enjoy reading it as I assure you I did in writing it.

Oley’s three day old beard glistened from the frozen sweat he’d incurred while working his chain saw. Snot hung precariously from his long, narrow nose. But the giant of a man couldn’t be bothered by any of that on this January day.For he was in love.

Back in her trailer, Marge used her Henley’s five and dime atomizer liberally from a jug of “Essence of New Jersey”, her fragrance of choice, bought in bulk out of a Woods People catalog. Her bony mutt, Hagar, scurried into a corner, paws over nose, trying to escape the eye watering smell. In only two hours she’d be meeting her main man, Oley. For she was in love.

Walking hand in hand into the Lions Club meeting hall, an odor of over heated grease greeted them, a smoky pallor hanging from the low ceiling. They always attended the twice monthly fish fry, their social highlight. Finding a corner table, the din of Scandivanian accented voices and smell of wet wool remained unnoticed by Oley and Marge for, as previously noted, they were in love

Oley’s heavily calloused hands rasped over Marge’s veined ones as he began to speak. Marge sniffed the sweet distinctive odor of Redman chew. Oley gulped twice, a chunk of Redman breaking loose, burning his throat.

“Geez Margie, I luv yer a bunch and I want to get hitched. We kin live in your trailer and I’ll work hard for yuh, Margie.”

Marge could feel her heart thumping through her thin flowered dress. She squeezed Oley’s work hardened hand. In her early forties, as was Oley, she shrieked “Geez, Oley, I’ve been waitin for this day. Oh, Oley.” Oley beamed through discolored teeth before shoving a hunk of perch into his mouth.

. . .

Humming Nordic tunes Oley busied himself with processing a particularly unruly stump. He felt pretty worked up about what was gonna go down in just three more days. The Motel Six reservation in place, he thought about what “leaving the light on for ya” would offer.

For you see, Oley and Marge were virgins.

Immune by his thoughts of Margie to the racket and oily smelling smoke of two cycled chain saws, his heavily insulated boot slipped on ice and down Oley crashed, no time to break his fall. The full force of his crash got absorbed by a protruding knob sticking out of the stump, smack dab into Oley’s crotch. Waves of pain swept over him as the hulking Nord began to comprehend what had just happened.

“Damn, Oley, we better git you over to the Doc”!

“Geez, Oley your Willy’s a mess. I never seen one worse”, said the old Doc, as he gingerly touched the purplish mass. “But here’s what I kin do. I can splinter ‘im up, and wrap some tape around ‘im.

“Tanks, Doc” Oley shouted, making sure he penetrated the doc’s ancient hearing aid, it’s battery the size of a bar of soap. The doc placed four tongue depressors around Oley’s Willy then clear taped it.

“You’ll be good as new in a few weeks, Oley”.

Limping out of the doc’s office, his crotch throbbing, one thing for sure, he wasn’t gonna delay the wedding. No sir. No word to Margie about this.

. . .

Oley rattled the key into the worn lock, opening the motel door, his arms engaged in carrying Marge into the room and sitting her down, feeling her bony body. Living for this day, she wasted no time. Arching her chest into his, feeling his sinewy muscles, she shivered with excitement.

“Oley, let me freshen up and I’ll be right back.” In the tiny bathroom, the odor of disinfectant noticeable, Marge tore off her coat, blouse and bra, reached into her purse, took out Henley’s atomizer and sprayed Essence of New Jersey generously between her breasts. Without hesitation, she burst into the room, her hands cupped under her breasts and exclaimed. “Look, Oley—never been touched!”

Fumbling furiously, Oley worked the buttons of his fly, letting his pants and long johns drop to the floor, a faint odor from careless toiletry in the air. Pointing proudly at his crotch, Oley exclaimed “Look Margie, never been outta der crate!”