123 Why do Eskimos wash in Tide?

“Saab . . . Swedes . . . blond people . . .”
JoJo spoke tangents to himself, first thoughts, one leaping on another, not quite a flight of ideas. He’d never stolen a car before.  It made him jumpy.
Ten years – maybe more – as a married man. He was stoned the whole time, sure. So? He knew in town eyes he was a good-for-nothing, but a good-for-nothing married to Aunt Kar. That counted big in San Anselmo. “Everything!” he yelped. He hadn’t picked up the marriage license . . . just a piece of paper . . . said to Father Quinn it would be in the mail first thing . . . got totally kazooed . . . what’s the big deal? . . . Get over it!
Highway 101 was a hint of reality. There was the gas pedal and there was his right foot. His voice sounded like his sister-in-law’s when she came to from one of her states and lapsed into another, lashing out at imaginary people who shook their fingers.
Screams!  “I am not naughty!”  The multiplication tables up to twelve!
JoJo prayed he wasn’t becoming like her.
He needed to keep a sense of humor. “Eskimo jokes,” he advised. “Eskimo jokes,” he cautioned. Those Eskimo jokes Granny Guss used to tell made him laugh every time. He prodded his gummed-up memory for any and all jokes. She’d told her boys hundreds when they were little cusses.
JoJo chuckled, despite his anxiety. He was the one who laughed the loudest and, as everyone always remarked, “in the sweetest way.”
“That’s how I got Kar . . .”
He gunned the Saab.  He pointed north, where population thinned.


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