Letter From A Constant Reader

LETTER FROM A CONSTANT READER

NEIL CUNNINGHAM

Dear Carol; Weekend

You’ll never guess what happened. I found the letter you wrote me last month!! Sho nuff! It was in my No. 2 (street wear) helmet all the time. I was sure surprised to find it around here, on account of I had already looked in every neek and crammy in this old house trailer; and let me tell you, some of them spots were funky.

Anyway, I’m so glad I found the rascal that I’m going to haul off and answer it, so here comes another Devoted Fan Letter. Hot off the old kitchen table. Yes, yes.

First I got to read it again on account of I sorta completely forgot what you said. So hold on a few minutes.

Well I read it, Carol. Say, you really ask a lot of questions, dont you? Yeah. I don’t really blame you, though. Anyway, get ready for some answers.

First of all, you wanted to know how I am. Or how I was. Righto. Only thing is,

I already told you how I was in my last Fan Letter, so now I’m going to tell you how I am. Feelingwise, that is. Okay? Okay.

I’m really lousy.

In the first place, I still haven’t heard any more from my buddy, Buddy since I got that weird wire about him losing my old -lady ex-old lady, Marian up north. I been worried sick since then on account of he didn’t say a word about my No. 1 (hard racing) motorcycle. Yeah, sick. I sure hope nothing’s happened to it.

I’m beginning to get a little bit worried about Marian, too, to tell the truth. For one thing, she’s the only one who knows where my tools are. Besides, it’s so peculiar. She never did that before. Whatever it is she did. At least I don’t think so. Then again, maybe she did. Well, I hope she’s okay and hasn’t been in no foul play.

Anyway, on top of being worried sick, I’ve also been, like, regular sick, on account of that terrible cold I caught the night I fell out in the ditch. You remember about that? Yeah. The pine tree done got me, that time. Well, this here cold took a little turn for the worse, and I came up with a touch of bronchial pneumonia. I’m just about A-No. 1 now though except I can’t go outside for another week or so. I really don’t mind it too much, however, on account of I’m an expert shut-in.

Well, back to all those damn questions. Phew!

About my Likes and Dislikes. I’m glad you asked that on account of I’ve really got a bunch. Yeah. Only thing is, I just can’t think of hardly any right now. However, here is a boss Dislike to hold you for awhile. Yeah. Are you ready?

DOGS!

How about that? Unusual, is it not? You know it, baby.

The reason why I’m mentioning it is

1 been thinking about dogs a lot lately. Like, I wouldn’t have gotten this advanced cold if I hadn’t lost control of my No.

2 (everyday) machine that night when the thunderclap clapped. See, Carol, I’ve always been real afraid of thunder. Yeah. Double scared. Don’t get me wrong, though. I’m not ashamed of it, cause every man has One Weakness. And mine was caused by a dog.

Here’s how it came to pass, like. When I was a little boy it used to thunder all the time in our neighborhood, and I used to hide under my Dad’s bed whenever, on account of I wouldn’t feel so seared there. He didn’t mind. He was a very generous man. Anyway, I had the thunder situation under control real good until one lousy day when my old man went out and bought a big old stinking bulldog and screwed me all up. Like, feature this. The damn dog was afraid of thunder too, and seeing as how he could run like crazy, he’d always beat me to the bed. Then he’d lay under there, cool and calm like Katy Winters, until I’d try to get under too. Then he’d bite the bejeezus out of me. This really bugged me. I finally had to give up and start hiding out under my own little bed, but it just wasn’t the same. For one thing, it was too damn crowded. It wasn’t near as safe, either.

I tell you true, Carroll. That was the most spiteful damn dog you ever heard of. He used to, like, tiptoe into my closet and do things in my bedroom slipper that you wouldn’t believe.

He was double sneaky too, for a bulldog. He’d sit around snorting and drooling and playing the part until my Dad turned his back, and then... ZAP! he’d grab my fanny! “Stop teasing that poor brute” my old man used to say. Some poor brute! That slick old dog picked on me from the day my Dad bought him ’til the day my Harley ran over him. By accident.

You know what his name was? Are you ready? It was Percy! How about that? Percy, for pity sake. Well, anyway, Percy’s dead now. Yes, yes. Like, Amen!

So that’s why I Really Dislike Dogs, unless they are under 6 to 8 pounds, and puny.

By the way, you remember I told you about a big black dog who bit me down at Ascot that time? Well, he was some kind of bulldog, too. Them bulldog type dogs dislike me in front. Yeah. Anyway, this big Am Ascot dog made me so mad when he tore the rear out of my new leathers, which didn’t even belong to me, that I almost kicked him. I didn’t, though. For one reason, I think that it’s bad to kick dogs, except in emergencies. That’s another one of my Silver Rules. Also, another reason why I didn’t do that is the guy that belongs to the dog. His name is Mack, or something, and he’s a great big bruiser. Yeah. Besides, he looks something like a bulldog, hisself.

Come to think on it, that animal was almost as big as he was. Like, enormous! Yeah. That’s the third reason why I didn’t kick him. Don’t get me wrong though, Carol. I’m a bitchen fighter when I’m totally aroused, but I don’t ever fight dogs. Never. Like, it’s beneath my dignity, right? Right.

You know, I sure felt bad about messing up those fine leathers that day, on account of it was a little bit my fault that it happened. That ferocious dog probably wouldn’t have jumped me if I hadn’t run into the pickup he was asleep in. See,

I lost control slightly while I was warming up in the infield. It could happen to anybody, though. Right? Right. Breaks of the road, and like that.

These here leathers I’m talking about were made by this nice little guy I know name of Hugh Gear, and they were really something. Yeah. Something else. They were black and tan, with yellow satin trimming, and a zipper up the back. The only thing was, they were awful tight. Yeah. Painful as hell. To tell the truth, I just wore them as a favor, on account of I prefer to look rank when 1 race, like Dick Mahan, or Steve McQueen. (You ought to see my No. 1 (hard racing) jacket, with the leather peeling off, and both sleeves torn loose. It’s my own design and it really makes it. Yes, yes.)

Remind me to tell you about this little guy Gear sometime, cause he is really different. Only thing is, he’s a little too different, like. You know? Maybe you don’t know. Well, for instance, he talks so damn weird. He calls it a speech impediment. I call it a lisp. There’s other things too. Yeah. A whole gang of them. Anyway, I sure felt sorry for him when I gave him back his leathers after that old bulldog incident. They didn’t look so hot with the yellow lace all torn, and the teeth marks in the armored crotch. He cried and cried. (That crying is one of those things I was talking about.) It made me feel bad though. He’s a pretty good guy, and those leathers sure did save my life that day. I mean.

Well you old No. 1 Favorite girl magazine editor, you, how the heck are you, baby? Good? Good.

Doggone. There goes my foot again. All this hard worry about my No. 1 machine, and my ex-old lady, and like that has sure enough brought on my foot trouble again. Hells bells. See, what it is, my left foot shakes like crazy when I worry real hard. It’s done that ever since I run up the back of that truckaway on highway 40 in ’52. Or was it highway 52 in ’40? I forget.

Anyway, I’ll write you another fan letter as soon as everything starts working right again, and answer some more of your questions, you nosy little rascal, you. (I’m just kidding, Karen.) So until some later date, don’t forget that I am:

Your Devoted No. 1 Fan, Blackie •