Her boyfriend. Her dishonest, suave, manipulating male companion is more like it. For all intensive purposes his name will be Ken, a little name for a little man. Don't misunderstand me, he is not little in stature but little in mind and wit. Unlike Barbie/Gertrude who has everything, can be anything, friends by the number, Ken has nothing and his only claim to fame is that he is associated with Barbie. Ken is a piece of shit decorated with flecks of gold cast off of Barbie's designer wardrobe.
Although he and I have never been friends, I know quite a bit about him. That will happen town boasting 1,347 people. He and I also share a mutual friend, or rather I should say we share a mutual snitch. I will call him Mitch, mainly because it will be easy to remember. Mitch the Snitch.
Mitch enjoys being the go between. He gets to be close to Gertrude when he is with Ken and he gets to talk about Gertrude when he is with me. Eat, sleep, dream, Gertrude. What could be better than that? Mitch and I were friends long before Gertrude so it is just kismet that he happens to be friends with Gertrudes male companion. It also happens to be bittersweet. I enjoy talking about Gertrude. Daydreaming about Gertrude. Envisioning my future with Gertrude. Hearing about Gertrude in pain, I do not enjoy. Ken on the other hand seems to enjoy Gertrude's pain, as he seems to inflict it often.
I didn't even realize I was stalking him until his neighbors began waving at me on a daily basis and I knew Maria by name. Maria is his mail carrier. What a sweetheart. She really understands the angst and torture of teenagers these days.
Stalking, right. Why was I stalking? It was really more like watching Ken angrily. Driving by his house and reving my engine. Keeping my eye on him to ensure the safety of my future wife. He knew I was keeping an angry eye on him. It was a dark and clear hot humid summer night as he and Gertrude were cruising. I happen to be next to him at a stop sign, on a quiet, vacant street. I revved the engine of my 1968 black, SS Camaro. He revved the engine of his piece of shit 1977 powder blue Thunderbird. With smoke behind us, I was in the lead. However, instead of racing down the street where the road changed from asphalt to gravel and put Gertrude in danger. I took the high road and carried on with my destination. Home.
Mitch couldn't wait to find me in the hallway the next day. Ken was bragging about how he had taken me and my V8 425 HP Camaro from a dead stop. I laugh and walk away. I see Gertrude. She smiles and winks. She and I share a secret, the truth.
Stay Funny San Diego, Daya
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