The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Fat Phil spent most of his days down at the O-Zi-Ya Auto Body Shop where all the layabouts mostly got in the way of Bondo Billy’s crew who were required to wear plague masks even though the visitors never did. Phil and the other malingerers thought this pandemic stuff was a crock and a hoax. Well, at least until Wally came down with the Covid, exposing at the Flathead Car Club who frequented Bondo Billy’s to a potential death sentence. Wally ended up in the ICU for a week on a respirator where no visitors were allowed, mask or no mask, and the boys were banned from Billy’s until their quarantines were ended, two weeks, Billy declared when they complained.
Wally recovered. Sort of. Scarred lungs, the docs said, but lucky to be alive considering his underlying conditions, meaning his obesity, his ravaged liver and his years of three pack a day smoking. If you think the boys started wearing masks, you’ve been smoking more than tobacco. Naw, they let the mizzus haul to the store for beer and food when masks were finally required.

Fat Phil visited Wally when he got released from a week’s rehab at the Mabana Sunset Home and found him propped up on pillows in his trailer’s livingroom, watching daytime TV, Fox News it looked like. ‘How ya doin’, Walter?’ he asked. Wally had lost 20 pounds it looked like and his eyes were sunk back in their sockets, making Phil fidgety and already regretting coming over, but then, after all, what are friends for?

“Not real good, Phil, not good at all, you want to know the truth. Grab yourself a beer,’ he gestured feebly toward the fridge.

“You want one, Walter?’ but Wally shook his head no. ‘Doc says lay off the sauce.’ Later Phil would tell the boys down at the Pilot Lounge Wally looked like death warmed over twice. ‘Underlying conditions,’ Little Jimmy said, sipping his drink. Underlying conditions, they all agreed. Thank god, each man jack of them thought to themselves, I don’t have those. ‘Drink up, men,’ Phil cried, ‘the next round’s on me.’

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