The Texting of Uncle Bob

I stepped away from the bar to have a pee, and when I returned I noticed my iphone was missing.

I asked the bartender if he noticed anyone snoopy around my drink. Because that was missing as well. He hadn’t noticed.

The glass was still there, but gone was the freshly poured Guinness.

“Of all the balls!” I said.

The only thing left of my drink was the head, which, not having a stout to stand on, lay in a sad lump at the bottom of the glass.

“I’ll have another,” I told the bartender.

When my girlfriend arrived, I explained the situation and asked to use her cell phone.

”The nerve of some people,” she said.

“I’m going to text the thieving son of a bitch who stole my iphone,” I told her. “I’ll put a scare in that scum bucket, for sure.”

Dear thieving bitch, I wrote. I know who you are. And unless you return my phone to the address I’ve listed at the bottom of this text, something horrible is going to happen to your uncle Bob. Just slip the phone in an envelope and drop it in the mail and all will be forgotten.

I then showed the text to my girlfriend.

“Who’s Uncle Bob?” said Anna.

“Beats me,” I said. “I just figured most people have an Uncle Bob somewhere. Maybe I’ll get lucky.”

The following morning Anna was awakened by her cell phone.

“Alfred,” she said. “It’s a text message for you.”

I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and slipped on my glasses.

”Where are we?” I said. ”I don‘t remember leaving the pub.”

”Me neither,” said Anna. ”But I do feel at home.”

”Me, too,” I said. “I wonder who’d be writing me?”

“Maybe it’s about your phone."

“Maybe," I said. "Let’s see what it says."

Dear Guinness drinker. Thanks for the stout. It sure hit the spot. And thanks for taking such an interest in my uncle Bob. For that I’m grateful. He is a bit insane, you know. Though, in a fun sort of way. But you’ve nothing to fear, dear friend, as I’ve tied him securely to one of your kitchen chairs. His meds, should he have a psychotic episode, are in the knapsack along with his diapers. Me? I’m flying off to Florida for some much needed fun in the sun.

Normally I’d take the old fart with me, but the economy being what it is, I just can’t do it anymore. But I feel safe leaving him in your good hands. I saw that wad of cash you pulled out of your trousers when you paid for the Guinness. Impressive. Now I must pack for the trip. So, good bye, for now. Yours truly, a grateful soul.

P.S. Please note that Uncle Bob loves to break out in song at the least provocation. And he’ll sing about any damn thing. Thanks again.

“Is this some kind of fucking joke?” I said.

“It is kind of funny,” said Anna.

“I’m not laughing,” I said.

Fine, I wrote back, keep the damn phone. It’s my own damn fault for leaving it unattended. But I hope your plane crashes and the only thing they recover is my phone. Bastard!

“Now I’m hungry,” I said. “Let’s go make some breakfast.”

“Fine,” said Anna. “Banana pancakes?”

“Banana pancakes!” came a voice from the kitchen. “Sounds all right to me! Banana pancakes, baby! Gonna set this fat boy free!”

I looked at Anna and she looked at me. We then scurried back under the covers until we felt sober enough to face anything resembling an Uncle Bob tied to a chair in our kitchen. We were obviously still drunk and hearing things.

Actually, we’re both just hoping it’s another case of the delirium tremors and that we’ll wake up, as usual, in the drunk ward at the county hospital.

I only hope they don’t don’t take away my shoelaces, again. I hate when they do that.