I miss him.
There was …something… about that shrunken little man.
Perhaps it was the reassuring sameness of those ubiquitous coveralls. Or the ridiculously endearing 3 inch heels on all his footwear. And his hair: sublime.
Regardless, I am bereft.
Last evening, in naught but forest green Christmas PJs 1 and a soiled wife-beater, I knelt next to the lighted Rudolph in our front yard and wailed. I rent my hair and screamed my anguish, tears frozen to my cheeks. Rudolph, indifferent to my loss, mutely, mechanically reared heavenward.
Be not so quick to judge, my friend.
Kimmie may have appeared unprepossessing, unwashed and perhaps even quietly monomaniacally bat-shit crazy, but he had…it.
As in Elvis it, as in Beatles Tom Jones Michael Jackson The Artist Formerly Known As Prince Willy Nelson blowin’ dope it.
I sagged onto the cold soggy ground and poured out my loss until Nora sent Asta Jr out to ask if she should call the EMTs. Even then, amid the stares, hoots and outright laughter of my neighbors as I turned and slogged my bunny slippers though the muddy grass back to the Charles manse, even then I mourned my friend.
As I will mourn every day hence, until the end of days.
I miss him. 2