Surely You're Joking!

 

            “Ralph,” said Milly, one day when they were taking a little drive in her Escalade, “I have a question for you.”
            “OK, I guess that’s why you called this meeting!” said Ralph, gazing at the passing scene. Highway 9 was new to him. It was neat because once you get north of Arlington, there are lots of dips and curves, and even some switchbacks.
            “It’s about a word. I think you probably know what it means. You’re the only one I know to ask. It’s not in the dictionary. I did look,” said Milly.
            “A word? What kind of word?” said Ralph, turning around to look at her.
            “Wicha, or witcha. If you heard a Forest guy say that, what would it mean to you?” said Milly.
            “Where did you hear that?” Ralph laughed.
            “On a podcast! It wasn’t just some guy saying it. He had it on tape! It was real!” insisted Milly. She was a little startled by his laughter.
            “That’s pretty rough talk for a lady, Milly,” said Ralph. He was still laughing.
            “What happened was one or more of you guys were out in the woods hollering at each other, and some guy took a shot at them. I don’t know if he was trying to hit them, or just trying to get them to pipe down. Right after the rifle shot you hear this voice say witcha, or something very close to that, quite distinctly!” said Milly.
            “I’m not surprised then,” said Ralph. “If some hotshot with a rifle fired at me, and missed, it must be noted, I might say the same thing!”
            “What does his missing have to do with it,” said Milly.
            “Everything!” said Ralph.
            “It doesn’t have an exact English equivalent. You know you can’t really put this in your column at the paper, Milly,” said Ralph.
            “Some commenters thought it translated to missed me, and some of them thought it was like some Lakota words, meaning like non-Indian. Some wags had waggish suggestions. It’s not that huh?” said Milly, still driving up and down hills and around sharp corners.
            “Roughly, I guess,” said Ralph.
            “Oh, just spit it out, Ralph,” said Milly, finally.
            “Really?” said Ralph.
            “Really,” said Milly.
            “Well, to water it down a little, it means ‘kiss my foot, loser, no hair bozo!’” said Ralph.
            “Oh, come on, that’s not so bad!” she said, looking relieved.
            “I said it was watered down, Milly. If you print the real word and anyone says it to one of us, they are going to get beat up, at the very least. And you will be accused of dirty language. It’s a little more biological than what I said,” said Ralph.
            “Oh,” said Milly. “Well, OK. I guess I’ll leave it at that. I don’t want to trigger any cross-species incidents.”
            “Yeah, I’m not surprised the guy said it, but you don’t want to spread it around,” said Ralph. “Peace, yanno, if at all possible.”
            “Thanks, Ralph, I knew you would tell me true. I guess we better turn around and I’ll get you back to Ramona,” said Milly, doing that very thing. She could have driven all the way to Canada on 9, but Ralph didn’t have a passport anyhow, and he would be hard to explain to the border guard.
            By the time she got to the wide spot on SR20 the sun was sinking.
            “Love to Ramona and Cherry, Ralph,” said Milly.
            “You got it,” said Ralph, piling out, and vanishing into the Forest. She could still hear his laughter for a few seconds, then she turned the big SUV around and drove back to Milltown.

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