Red Paint—a true tale

George was a short, stout man,
Glasgow born, Clydeside bred,
older and slower of body,
but not of mind.

Our peaceful harbor
was invaded by
hard men from the city.
They were having
a relaxing day by the water
harassing an old couple.
Our Jimmy and Jeff decided
to run them off, feeling that
the two of them easily
outnumbered three ruffians.

But Auld George yelled,
"Wait for me!" and they did,
shaking their heads at each other.
They thought they
would need to protect him.

Jimmy had a pipe wrench, Jeff
had a marlinspike. George
picked up a broad paintbrush
and dipped it in a handy bucket
of red paint.

George stumped out ahead,
puffing a bit and trailing
carmine drops, and the heavies
laughed and laughed and laughed
at the fat old man with
the dribbling paintbrush.

From five feet away, George
suddenly
flicked his brush
and filled the face
of the foremost laughing thug
with stinging scarlet—
giving a new meaning to "red-eyed."
The second hooligan
rushed him, shouting. George,
casually stepped aside and
reached up to slap him
across the face with the
still-dripping brush.
Eyes and mouth afire,
he howled too.

Two down,
one to go. But...
that one was running—
he may not have stopped
until he reached Glasgow,
where people only attack you
with knives and razors and clubs—
and there are no
mad old men
with crimson paintbrushes
and happily fiendish grins.

Walking back to our boats,
George glanced at Jeff and Jim
with a sapient eye,
"You laddies need help again,
chust let me know. Nae bother at all."

I was there, I saw the whole thing. Jimmy and Jeff and I all learned something that day:
A true Gael thinks outside the box.
A man of experience is canny.
Nature provides.

© Jessica Macbeth, 2006. All rights reserved. Do not copy or repost without written permission.