Looking Out: Friends can share the saddest stories

“So anyway, as I was saying when you rudely interrupted me,” says Lyle Pratt while Johnel and I pretend to listen while sipping our coffee. “My cousin was…”

“He’s got a lot of cousins,” says Johnel.

“And every one of ’em has a story,” I say.

“Shut up,” says Lyle. “My cousin was driving a big truck across the desert in Death Valley. He turned off onto a little two-track trail looking for a shortcut.”

“In Death Valley? In a big truck? Going off-road?” I say. “Sure he did.”

“Quiet down. This is a sad story,” says Lyle. “Well, no surprise, at the very moment he ran out of fuel, he got stuck in deep sand. That truck wasn’t going anyplace, and my cousin…”

“What’s his name?” asks Johnel.

“Buford,” says Lyle. “It was his name. He’s no longer with us.”

“Sorry for your loss,” I say. “Let’s hear the rest of it.”

“Old Buford, there he is, stuck in the desert, miles from civilization, but he’s got 50 cases of bottled water in the truck along with a thousand boxes of cereal, so he’s going to be well hydrated and well fed.”

“So how long before someone rescued him?” asks Johnel.

“Oh, he never did get rescued. In fact, nobody found his lifeless, mummified body sitting there in the truck for months and months.”

“How did he die? Rattlesnake?” I ask.

“Starved to death,” says Lyle.

“Wait. He had a thousand boxes of cereal. Don’t you mean he ran out of water and died of thirst?” I say.

“Nope,” says Lyle. “He starved. He didn’t have a knife, a scissors, an axe or a jack hammer, so there was no way he could open the bags inside the cereal boxes.”

Johnel and I groan in unison.

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“Your turn,” says Lyle, looking at me.

“OK, OK,” I say. “My tale of woe has to do with a pair of dress pants.”

“Why in the world would you even own a pair of dress pants anymore?” says Johnel.

“Funerals. Weddings. Wife who likes to dress up,” I reply.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. ‘Oh’ is right. The thing is, sometimes I do the laundry and sometimes my beloved wife, Marsha, does it. Right after the last funeral, I did it. As I was taking the stuff out of the dryer, Marsha said, ‘I hope you didn’t put those dress pants in there. They have to be dry cleaned.’”

“Oops,” says Lyle.

“After I uncorked the trousers from inside the pocket of a fitted sheet, I held them up. Disaster. I’ve seen prunes with fewer wrinkles, folds and creases. And clearly, those pants were now four sizes too small for me,” I say with a sigh. “Before that, they were only one size too small.”

“Marsha was mighty put out with me, but I told her that I consider it a felony for any store to sell retired men anything that has to be dry cleaned.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” says Lyle

“That’s for sure,” says Johnel. “Blue jeans don’t need to be dry cleaned and if you have to go to a wedding or funeral, all you have to do is iron them.”

“Good point,” I say. “And thanks for the emotional support.”

“I guess you don’t read the washing instruction labels,” says Lyle

“I read the ones on Marsha’s clothes,” I say. “I’m not a total fool. Now, Johnel, it’s your turn.”

“OK,” he says. “The saddest tale I can tell is about the day I met two old friends for coffee and had to listen to their stories. The end.”

Jim Whitehouse lives in Albion.

This article originally appeared on The Daily Telegram: Jim Whitehouse: Friends can share the saddest stories