The Best of Bill

I start this collection with…



Darlene threw a bucket of water onto her husband’s head, awakening him in an instant. He sputtered unintelligibly in the dark for a long time before flicking the light on in hasty alarm. “What the hell’s goin’ on Darlene!?” he shouted between a coughing fit. The bed was soaked in water, and the alarm clock across the room read two hours after midnight.

With a relieving sigh, Darlene dropped the bucket. “I thought you’d never wake up Charles.” She then rubbed her eyes in the lamplight, and leaned on the bed side, as Charles repeated his question with less coughs.

“What the hell did you wake me up for?” He began to get out of bed in case the reason was urgent.

“It’s the fridge,” Darlene said with a look of worry. “It’s not working again.”

“Well can’t this matter wait till tomorrow?” asked Charles, as he put on his slippers.

“Afraid not dear,” his wife said. “It’s being very stubborn about it too.”

With an almighty groan, Charles got up from the bed, and trudged up the steps leading to the kitchen platform, with Darlene behind him flicking on the light. There in the corner, the tall, beige refrigerator sat silent and idle despite its youth. Using a whisk from a pitcher of kitchen utensils, Charles gave the fridge door a firm tap, stirring its electric motor in back. “Hey,” he said to it, “what’ve you stopped for this time?”

With a jerk, the refrigerator replied “I’m stopping for good, unless you can meet my demands properly.”

“You said ‘no more leftovers’ and we gave you no more leftovers,” Charles told him, tapping the whisk to add emphasis.

“Oh yeah?” the fridge protested, “what’s in the bottom left drawer, may I ask?”

Charles opened the door, finding the light bulb to be off, as the fridge refused it any power. The drawer contained carrots, celery, some potatoes, and an apple. “I don’t see any leftovers, you’re mista–”

“Keep looking!” The fridge insisted. With another groan, and a few mumbled swears, Charles found half an onion, wrapped in plastic to keep the refrigerator from dehydrating it.

“There’s also half an onion here, but nothing else.”

“That’s a leftover!”

Darlene objected. “Leftovers are cooked food, that’s just onion.”

“If leftovers are cooked,” asked the oven, who liked barging in on kitchen issues “how come one can have ‘leftover coleslaw’?”

“Yeah,” the fridge agreed. “A leftover onion is just as cold going in as any amount of coleslaw.”

“But,” Charles said, “What if the coleslaw wasn’t leftover? It may be kept in you until it is needed.”

“That’s beyond the point!” the refrigerator said, quivering in frustration. “The onion is not complete, so there’s some used, and some left. The left is leftovers!”

“Well,” Darlene said, throwing up her arms, “what do you want me to do with the rest? Put the whole darn thing in the stew?”

“Oh,” the oven said in disgust, “goodness no. That would be awful.”

“How about,” the fridge suggested, “you just buy smaller onions! If you knew you wouldn’t need the whole thing, why’d you bother buying it!?”
“I was going to use some here, and some later,” Darlene said simply, as the fridge quaked with disagreement.

“That’s leftovers!”

“THAT’S IT!” Charles grabbed the onion, and threw it out the open window, where it landed far below in the duplex parking lot. “Now it’s garbage, and not your problem. We’ll just buy smaller onions, and you can just keep them cold.”

“Hold on just a moment,” the fridge said, still refusing to give in. “I never said ‘no half onions’ I said NO LEFTOVERS! None of any kind!”

“Okay,” Charles said angrily, as he began searching the fridge’s interior. “What other garbage have you got in here?”

“Try the milk,” the fridge said cooly.

Charles’s face grew red. “No way….” he said as he eyed the half gallon of milk, with a glass’s worth of milk taken.

Darlene’s mouth hung open in disbelief. “You must be joking–”

“It’s leftover, isn’t it!?” the refrigerator shouted. “I’m not gonna have anything left over in my guts, and that means–”

“We are not purchasing milk in half-pints,” Charles declared, slamming the fridge door shut. “That’s going too damn far!”

“Fine by me,” the fridge said, “you can just let your milk spoil in me, because I’m not keepin’ it cold! And that’ll go for your eggs, your cheese, that package of chicken breasts, and not to forget those–”

“I’m getting a new fridge,” said Charles, as he turned back towards his bedroom stairs. The fridge didn’t falter.

“Calling a bluff Charles?” it asked mockingly. “I happened to overhear your little bank-discussions in the living room just yesterday. Sounds like you’ll hardly have enough funds to eat for the next couple of months… Granted that it don’t go bad!”

“All right, that’s it!” Charles walked up to the fridge, wearing a face of murder. Darlene, seeing the fridge’s point, held him back in a full-nelson.

“Charles, we can’t afford another fridge!”

“What about a toaster!?” the toaster shouted from atop the microwave. “Bet’cha can’t buy a new one of me! I won’t have any more of that disgusting white bread, hear!? None!”

Turning away from the fridge, Charles yanked out the chord of the rebellious toaster grabbed hold of it, and treated it the same fate as the leftover onion. Its trailing chord whacked against the walls before disappearing in the night with an echoing clang. As his wife stood in shock, Charles cried “That’s it fellas! We’re eatin’ nothing but BEANS until I can muster the funds to get you ALL replaced! You hear me!? Canned beans!”

“Fine by me, ya loon,” the microwave said, “but I’m not heating them up.” He soon caught up with the toaster, followed by the electric can opener.