waiting for Gogol

on March 25th I arrived at the bus stop early and out of breath two other passengers loitering beneath the sign stared at one another’s shoes with the sort of interest and anticipation usually reserved for a pretty lass once I caught my breath I greeted the pair jovially but neither looked up instead continuing to stare at one another’s shoes as if expecting something more interesting than the doubtless smelly feet that hid coyly within them it was all extraordinarily strange I tried diverting my attention to avoid joining them in their staring contest by remarking to myself on the poor condition of the road or the terribly worn pickup times on the bus schedule beginning to wonder with increasing irritation when the damn bus would arrive and speculating on whether my silent staring compatriots would notice and board and then sit together to keep an eye on one another’s feet or if they had other stranger business outside my comprehension but once curiosity got the best of me I blurted out waiting for the umm number six gentleman and the one standing closest to me mumbled no waiting for gawd dam Gogol scratching my head I said do you mean waiting for Google it often makes me curse and other one looked up crossly and loudly exclaimed Gogol we’re waiting for Gogol who is this umm Gogol I replied in turn and he hitched his pants as if he had waited for an excuse to do that all morning and slapped his partner hard on the shoulder and shouted who erm is this damn fool Gogol and the other shrugged and rubbed his great bulbous nose so hard that I feared it might pop and spray us both with some puslike effluvium and I shuddered involuntarily the sight of it disrupted my thoughts so completely that I forgot the two men staring resolutely at one another's shoes were waiting for a man that neither they nor I knew though it was perfectly grotesque once I had laid eyes on his swollen probiscis I could not take them off it again strange thoughts infected my mind my feverous imagination conjuring in his swollen sniffer Hell's fire and poor tiny tormented souls howling like banshees in its eternal flames but once I wrenched my own tortured gaze from its bulbous pitted mass I remembered the gentleman who kept them waiting and thought I had heard his name somewhere before so pulling my phone from my pocket I asked Siri who is Gogol she chirped here is some info about Nikolai Gogol he was a Russian novelist short-story writer and playwright of Ukrainian origin born April 1 1809 and died February 21 1852 I think I see a problem with your plans gentlemen you're waiting for someone who died almost one hundred and seventy-five years ago I said with full-throated triumph bulbous nose said I don't see why that should be a problem and his friend vigorously agreed and I was so flustered by their answers that the number six came and went while I stood like a flatfooted boobie soon I too waited like a double breasted idiot for Gogol flinching every time Cyrano D picked at his monstrous nose hours passed in silence which I spent reading Gogol's fiction on my handy device to determine what we might learn if his ghost actually deigned to visit the bus stop where I missed the number six not once not twice not thrice but every bleeding time it passed by sucked in by that hellacious hound dog of a nose and the imagined torment of the wee folk trapped within it do you suppose Gogol can shed any light on such an enormous nose another man arrived and asked me are you waiting for the number six not me brother I answered I'm reading Gogol is it good he asked I shrugged I couldn't say I don't understand Russian

fin

Pulitzer prize please

...

insincere apologies to Thomas Beckett Nikolai Gogol and Hunter S Thompson

I now await the lavish attention of my master Paul like a puppy who piddled on the floor with excitement in anticipation of pets and a treat