“Good morning, everyone!”
“And welcome to The Welsh Losser Emporium for middle-aged clothes-conscious men.”
“Hi, I’m Hal Halfbit”
“And I’m Judy McFarland… from America’s Newsroom.”
But where’s Welsh Losser, PR executive and Kyiv-based writer? Isn’t he supposed to be there to live-model the latest in stretchy-band cotton trousers for over-50 something-or-others? Or is he in the Men’s Room, being waylaid by a large loveable Negro in mud-caked overalls? Or did he decide completely unexpectedly to occupy a temptingly vacant pavilion along the way to expound on “The Power of Three” from his YouTube lecture series, and the crowd of spellbound onlookers just won’t let him go?
“Why not ‘Two’, Welsh,” we can just hear a man from the crowd shout out at him. “I mean, ‘two’ is just as good as ‘three’, just less… or am I missing something?”
“‘When Widows Prance’, I feel like a little girl all over again,” cries out a woman, in reference to arguably one of the better known of Welsh’s numerous Internet novels.
“I wanna try on them pea-green unmentionables,” an elderly man barks at his wife, who’s tugging him by the arm, above the elbow, her feet firmly planted into the smooth floorspace of the Seattle, Washington, Expo Center.
“You ol’ fool, those drawers are fer youngins.”
“Like ol’ men don’t piss their pants on occasion? Release my arm, you ol’ crow, or I’ll strip to my skivvies right here and now.”
“The excitement is palpable, Judy.”
“Like all of America is lined up in front of a single dressing room.”
“Over 50 and overweight, but still not beaten by life.”
But where is Welsh Losser? Is this some kind of a gimmick, a well-rehearsed showstopper, where Welsh eventually shows up in that cream-white suit and fat, wrinkled face, walleyes discombobulated behind half-steamed glasses… looking to all intents and purposes like a stouter and ultimately more sinister version of Colonel Sanders, as if Welsh tied the old man up back stage to steal the show for himself?
“No folks, there will be no fried chicken today, but hours of blather on the importance of tourism for countries ravaged by war, on the importance of people, kindness, being yourself, ‘The Power of Three’, that latest self-published packet of pulp…”
“Dad, can I climb on the pirate ship?”
“I don’t know if it’s safe, son,” says the father, but alas too late, for the life-sized cardboard vessel, replete with a cutthroat crew of wax figures and a mechanical parrot, is just too alluring for the youngster and his kid brother.
The father lurches forward in a half-hearted attempt to restrain the boys from scaling up the sides of the ship, then halts awkwardly mid-motion, uncertain if he should shout authoritatively for the boys to desist, or just stand there smiling stupidly until someone from the crowd protests or a security guard gets involved.
And in that very position of feeble hesitation – knees locked and bent in place, neck craned up like a first-time visitor to New York, the upturned face, a mix of guilty glee, embarrassment in willful ignorance of public censure, nervous anticipation of a sooner than later end to these childish antics before something bad happens (all of these feeling being instantaneous but perceived by the man as an ice cream of emotions dripping over his face) – somewhere in this all too common self-inflicted torture session of parental responsibility, the man’s eyes recover their normal function and see plainly inscribed across the motley-colored glossy surface of the ship’s hull: “Butt Pirates”.
The younger boy has started to cry, noticing on deck that one of the bearded scallywags is without pants.
The older boy notices a true-to-form figure of Welsh Losser in tight-fitting green underpants scrubbing the deck and grimaces in disgust: ‘What kind of pirate ship is this?’
Moments later, while the family of three is sitting in a not-so-nearby food court, relatively relaxed… the father sipping a cola to settle his stomach, the small boy pouting over an ice cream while his older brother picks sullenly at a plate of French fries, the loudspeakers across the emporium blare: “Kyiv – city of dreams! At Pavilion Number Five.”
“And this is Welsh’s sidekick whom you probably know as The Ferret,” announces a man in a tuxedo holding a pointer to a large flat-screen TV hung on the wall of one of the emporium’s many niches at the exposition center.
An animated film is in progress, starring Welsh Losser, as he engages other mostly less-known cartoon characters.
In each clip, Welsh is featured in a different set of clothing – stretchy-band pants with the price tag prominently displayed on the belt loop, Colonel Sanders-style leisure suits, cut-off blue-jean shorts for people with baby-fat legs, and other apparel from this year’s collection.
A well-dressed woman leans toward her husband to whisper: “George, am I seeing things, or does the Welsh character keep pinching The Ferret’s buttocks?”
The man straightens up and shouts: “Hey, why is the fat older guy pinching the weird little guy’s ass?”
The man in the tuxedo stops, smiles, and twists his long black mustache as he takes in the man asking the question. There are only a couple of other people in attendance who don’t seem to be paying any attention.
“Welsh and The Ferret are the closest of friends, my dear sir. Their antics and adventures in the city of Kyiv are the stuff of legend. The trials they have experienced together are the ingredients of an enduring camaraderie vividly displayed here.”
The man squints, sniffs, and turns toward his still unsettled wife, smiling: “They’re just friends, honey.”
Then the two walk away, the wife turning back once to notice the mustachioed man smiling after them.
Music blares, a marching band can be seen parading in the distance. The food court is packed.
But no Welsh Losser.
No public lectures, no catwalk in stretchy-band trousers…
Filed by The Half Guinea, January 22, 2018 (apparently as an advertisement)