Freddy, the widower, adores $50 single malt scotch. It was time for the wake. The setting was a gazebo at the end of a long pier extending far out over low kuntry marsh grass---the place Freddy and Coleen had spent hours at dusk for years and years. Thirty or forty people were on hand. Lots of subdued, pre-wake chatter. No laughter.
A fellow eased up next to me and whispered, "Where the hell is Freddy? I saw him going in a liquor store about an hour ago. Surely to God he'll show up for his own wife's wake won't he?"
"Yep. He'll be here. What sort of shape he'll be in is another question."
A half- hour passed. Two folks left. Those left were milling about, irritated, and mumbling"
"There he is!" The fellow dispatched loudly.
Approaching the gazebo, I couldn't help from noticing the high-end, canvass, leather-trimmed man bag hung over his shoulder.
Pumping his hand endearingly, I said, "What's in the man bag, single malt?"
"It's Coleen."
"Whoops..."
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