Popeye was in a good mood today. It may be the Percodan or his switch to a new anti-coagulant, but whatever it is I hope it lasts. He sent me out to buy flowers for his 'goy-el' (Olive) but the shop only had posies. I apologized but he patted me on the back affably, dislocating my collarbone once again, and said she'd go wild for them when he picks her up on their date tonight. They've been courting for eighty years - when the fuck are they going to get married?
Caught hell from P. today. Turns out Bluto, that fat bearded bastard, got to O. first last night with a dozen long-stemmed roses, making Popeye's selection impotent. Literally, the stems wilted and made a slide wistle decrescendo sound once O. rejected them. What a bitch.
So eventually B. wooed O. onto the ferris wheel, but cut the electric lines before they got on so they would get stranded at the top. B. assaulted O. again, and Pop is just a few carriages down from them, whistling discontent. I will never understand why O. keeps falling for B.'s tricks. Every damn time, it ends up in an attempted rape. Does she know how many tears P. has shed for her? Or the agony this poor sailor goes through every time? He started seeing a therapist a few years ago twice a week and still he hasn't had any sort of resolution.
It ended as these situations always do, with a can of spinach and punching B. into the horizon, with O. calling P. her "hero", whatever sick psychosexual trigger that word is to her. Thinking of attempting an intervention with The Pops, but have to deal with Wimpy's demons first.
So tired. Babysat Swee'Pea last night, who ended up crawling out the window and leading me into a construction site. I called the authorities and told them what happened. They explained how Popeye usually chases S'P. around on the girders until he catches up with him. I just called the fire department. When we finally got home P was so angry steam was literally shooting out of his ears. By way of apology bought him a new corncob pipe. On my way home saw Wimpy offering his body outside a restaurant. Gave him $5 and pleaded for him to get some help.
Drove Popeye to speech therapy this morning. He always hates going there, saying, "It's ainks no use, I's gots develoksmental problems!" but I told him if he ever wanted to get commercial work, he'll need to speak clearly. I grab a hamburger during his session and shudder to think what Wimpy may be doing at that moment for another hit. When I pick P. up he's glummer than ever. It's been years and still no breakthrough. To cheer him up I sing him his theme song. Within minutes he's back to his boisterous self, huck-uck-uck-uck'ing all the way home.
Wimpy's dead. They found him floating in the harbor, naked and beaten. If only I had more time, I could have saved him. P. and O. were in hysterics when they found out. Even Bluto was respectful enough to keep his peace when they walked by him on their way to identify the body. Wimpy was a man of his urges and had unpaid debts all over town. There were never going to be enough Tuesdays in his life to pay them all back. Later that day, sitting in his rocking chair, Popeye quietly suggested he should take his boat out and bury W. at sea. I'm wondering if that would count as overtime for me.