The Clothesline War (standard:humor, 2233 words)
Author: Walt	Added: Aug 26 2006	Views/Reads: 3586/2533	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
You might think that these two women in their early sixties would have had enough of trying to catch a man who would bring to a relationship as many problems as pleasures, but they were both convinced that a man would be the answer to fill the voids in th

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course, a good-looking, well-dressed tall man who can dance all the 
latest steps attracts the single women. And some of the not-so single 
women. This did not bother Charles Voronich  - in fact, he welcomed the 
attention. He would keep a relationship moving slowly along to the 
point where the lady of the moment was ready to ask him to move in and 
become a permanent household fixture, then Charles would leave for 
greener pastures. Somehow his women never had anything bad to say about 
him after he left. There was very little acrimony, just pleasant 
memories. Chuck was the envy of many of the men at the Golf and Country 
Club. 

It was towards the end of July when Abigail invited my wife and me over
for a barbecue dinner with Charlie Voronich. I had nothing against a 
free steak dinner and Mary wanted to help Abigail catch Charlie. I 
think Mary had been talking to her network of women friends at the Club 
and they had decided that Charles Voronich had been on the loose long 
enough. In fact, I wasn't certain that Charlie wasn't showing some 
signs of slowing down. Maybe it was time for him to settle in with a 
permanent partner, someone he could spend the rest of his years with - 
someone as nice as Abigail would be fine, I thought. 

Marion, on the other hand, saw Charlie as her latest target and I
suppose her motives for sunning herself in the dying rays of a July 
evening, in partial view of Abigail's backyard were patently obvious to 
Mary and Abigail. I did notice Charlie glance through the hedge a 
couple of times. Marion was a surprisingly good-looking woman for her 
age and had spent some time cultivating a tan with very few tan lines 
that I could see. At a glance, anyway. We had a pleasant evening and I 
thought Charlie and Abigail were going to get along fine. 

Monday is washing day in our neighbourhood. A day when the clotheslines
are fluttering with colours. You can tell a lot about the people who 
use clotheslines. First, they are concerned about the environment, 
using the warm breeze supplied by nature rather than the heat of 
non-renewable resources to dry their clothes. You can also read things 
into a clothesline display by looking at colours. You can have a 
conservative couple with plain white bed sheets or people with flowered 
patterns, pastels and even comic-strip character sheets. A discerning 
eye can spot sizes, of course, but quality can been seen, not only in 
the care of how items like shirts are pegged to the line, but how the 
flapping shirts hold their shape in the wind. One can also use the 
clothesline to show-off or brag about one's lifestyle. Underwear is 
particularly good for this. And that Monday, Marion started the war. 

"Jim, do you see what Marion has on her clothes line?" Mary asked me
just as I was leaving for work. I glanced across the street, moving a 
little to my left to see around the flowering crab tree that partially 
blocked the view to our neighbour's back yards. 

"What's so special? It looks like an ordinary washing to me," I said. 

"Ordinary nothing! Look at those panties!" 

Marion had a string of coloured underwear on the line. All flimsy - no
jockey briefs there. They were the kind of thing you see advertised in 
books that arrive in plain brown paper wrapping - the ones with a day 
of the week embroidered around a sexy motif. "Wow," I said. "There's 
not much to them, is there? I wonder when Marion started wearing 
those?" 

"I'll bet she has never worn them!" Mary said. "She's just trying to get
Abigail's goat." 

"Oh," I said and went to work. 

Tuesday is ironing day - the day when you try to get the wrinkles out of
Monday's laundry. But Tuesday morning as I looked across the road to 
see if Abigail had remembered to put her recycle bin out, I saw her 
hanging out some laundry. "Mary, you've got to see this," I called to 
my wife who was upstairs putting on her face before going to work. 

"What is it, Jim. I'm running late." No matter how early Mary starts her
day, she is always running a little late. 

"Just look at Abigail's laundry." 

Abby had hung out three pairs of black underwear and a black negligee. I
tried to picture Abigail in that skimpy, frilly clothing and could not. 


"Oh dear," I heard Mary say from upstairs. 

Wednesday it rained so there was nothing new on the clotheslines. But
Thursday dawned fair and now it was Marion who ran out the battle 
pennants from the yardarm. Red panties and bra. Some blondes look good 
in red but I have generally preferred black. It was Saturday before 
Abby replied with a string bikini and beach towel that matched. I knew 
damn well that Abigail would never been seen in public in that! But 
maybe that was the point she was making with Marion. Only Charlie 
Voronich would get to see her in that outfit. 

Sunday afternoon Chuck was outside moving the lawn sprinkler for Abby
when Marion just happened to walk by with that stupid mutt on the end 
of its sequined leash. Marion was wearing some type of pantsuit with a 
side-split leg - showing enough of her well-tanned gams to catch 
anyone's eye. She introduced herself as Abby's neighbour and was then 
on her way, hips swaying as she walked the dog down the street. 

My wife had been watching over my shoulder and I nearly jumped when she
said, "We're going to have to put a stop to that or Abby is going to 
lose her man to that she-wolf!" 

"Well, you won't have to worry for a week anyway, dear. Marion asked me
to pick up her mail next week - she's going to her sister's in Toronto 
for five days," I said. 

"That's a start. But maybe you should talk to Charles, tell him what a
good woman Abby is. You could drop a few words in his ear the next time 
you see him at the Golf Club, couldn't you?" 

"Whoa," I said. "I'm not getting mixed up in this. Count me out. Those
two old gals can do what they want - buy fancy underwear, hanging it 
out for everyone in the neighbourhood to see, whatever, but I'm not 
getting involved!" 

Tuesday morning Mary was up early, running the washing machine. I looked
at the alarm clock through bleary eyes - it was only 5:30. I rolled 
over and went back to sleep. When I arrived home from work that evening 
I walked over to check Marion's mailbox. Chuck's car was parked at 
Abby's and I could hear voices from the backyard but I decided not to 
disturb them. 

Mary kept watching the house across the street until I finally asked
what was bothering her. "Oh, nothing. I'm just checking to see if 
Charles has left yet." 

"You're getting just a little snoopy, aren't you?" I asked. 

"No, not really," was all she replied. I turned my attention back to
Tool Time. 

I was just getting ready to go upstairs when I heard Chuck's car door
close and the engine start. "He's going now," I called down to Mary. 

"Good. Com'on, Jim, I need you to hold the flashlight for me." 

"Hold the light?" I asked. 

"Yes, we have to get our washing off Marion's clothes line." 

"Marion's clothesline?" 

"Don't ask questions, just get own here." 

So I stood there, flashlight in hand as we took down all of my damp
clothes from our neighbour's clothesline. My underwear, my shirts, my 
good silk pyjamas that I never wear, my socks, my slacks and my best 
golf shirt. Abby flicked on her back porch light just as we finished. 

"Do you think it worked, Abby?" my wife asked as Abigail stepped out
onto her back porch. 

"Yes, thanks Mary. I filled Charles in on Marion's man, just as we
planned. Telling Charles about that big, jealous, truck-driving 
boyfriend of hers took away any interest he might have had! Thanks, 
Mary. And thank you, Jim. That was a great idea you had! Good night." 

"MY idea?"  I whispered as I carried home a laundry basket of my own
clothes in the middle of the night in the quiet neighbourhood where 
nothing ever happens. 

The Games Men Play 

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