There was once a lonesome whiner. He lived in a cabin high in the Colorado Rockies. He was once a lonesome stockbroking whiner from New Jersey but, tired and resentful of how everybody was so tired and resentful of his whining, he finally decided what he really needed was to get right away. And so he did. He lived simply on rabbit and root vegetables and fish from a little brook that disappointingly didn’t babble. And his cabin was all of finest log.

He lived 7 miles from the nearest town, deep in the dense woods, and one day in that town the mayor was murdered quite dead. I won’t go into the details but for a few good reasons including a hairbrush and 10 year old parking unpaid violation – making him a persona non-innocenta in that sleepy, crime-free, little backwater – the Lonesome whiner became the chief suspect in the case.

One Deputy De Pute was assigned to track down the Lonesome Whiner and bring him in for questioning. Depute De Pute was a lover of fine wine and polo neck jumpers in his spare time. He hated his flyover state existence and longed for the lifestyle of popular TV character Frasier. Therefore, it was with some reluctance that he set off about his loathsome duty that morning, with his sturdy boots, the arrest warrant and Officer Dent, a lover of cholesterol-based foods and string vests in his spare time.

If he could just get this tied up today, thought the Deputy, he might be back in time to meet Janet again in the chatroom for People who like Savignon Blanc But Not Merlot, Detest Viognier But Would Stab Their Grannies For A Really Good Syrah. Things were going well with Janet – he’d already got her to remove her bra with his description of a 1995 Chateau Margaux that he’d totally lied about having. But “Jerry” from Wyoming was sniffing around too and if he wasn’t careful he’d lose her like he’d lost the woman from the Niles Appreciation Discussion Board.

The two law enforcers strode off purposefully into the wood which was too dense for wheeled travel. Neither was quite sure of the exact location of the Lonesome Whiner’s cabin but they knew roughly in which direction to proceed. They also knew how vital it was for a cop to proceed rather than just go. The great state of Colorado prides itself on its police department’s fine proceedings – Jon-Benet Ramsay or no Jon-Benet Ramsay.

The two had long ago decided they had nothing to talk about and so they proceeded surprisingly companionably. It wasn’t long before they reached a clearing in which a small log cabin puffed smoke from its simple chimney.

“I’ll handle this, officer Dent. With any luck we’ll have this puppy in custody by noon, I’ll get back to Janet and you can get back to your Russian bride catalogue. (Marriagable ladies were hard to meet in this outpost of the Rockies. Or any ladies at all. The Great Woman Pox of the 90s had wiped out most of the area’s women and the population that wasn’t struggling to get away from the area’s love-starved men, was struggling to recover from her stroke.)

The door of the humble dwelling opened as they approached, and out came a small, balding man in wire-rimmed glasses, blowing his nose and muttering.

“Hey there! Yoo hoo! Lonesome Whiner! We’d like a word please, sir if you don’t mind,” called out Deputy De Pute.

“Oh no no no, fellas, you’ve got the wrong guy.” said the man who they could now clearly see was weeping.” I’m the Lonesome Piner, see. Yep. Up here pining for my dead lover, you know. Don’t feel bad though, it’s an easy mistake to make. I believe the Lonesome Whiner lives further on up the trail.”

“I think he’s right, boss” said Officer Dent. “Fella we’re looking for’s aboutin’ 6ft. This guy got the weepin’ and the log cabin parts an’ all but he ain’t got the height. Who’da thought though? Who’da thought we’d have a Lonesome Piner and a Lonesome Whiner up in these woods.”

Officer Dent shook his head at the unfathomable mysteries of the world and then thought about Olga some more.

Bidding the man a good day they proceeded on, the howls of anguish from the Lonesome Piner growing fainter as they climbed. It wasn’t long before they came to another clearing and another rustic cabin. This time the owner was ouside, sitting on her little stool in the dappling sunlight beside a basin and shelling her beans. And that right there was the problem. She was a she.

Blushing, at the unexpected sight of a woman, the shy Deputy affected ambivalence.

“Howdy there, Miss…?”

“Howdy boys, I’m Lucy Copeski, more ususally known round these parts as The Lonesome Diner. Never could abide to see another person eat and I’m none too pretty an eater myself so’s I assumed this twangy-ass accent and moved on up here to eat alone forever more. I miss the cinema and the warm embrace of my loving children but all in all I’sa happy here.”

She gave them a warm smile.

“Huh! The Lonesome Diner. Well I never!” said Depute De Pute, blushing again in case the other two suspected that he really hadn’t ever. O Janet! He needed to get back to Janet.

“Any idea where we might locate The Lonesome Whiner?” he asked.

“Further on up the trail, I reckon. Don’t get up there much myself but I’ve seen footsteps around that aren’t mine, nor Old Piner down there’s. Good luck, officers!”

The boys had been proceeding for about 3 hours now and stepped up their pace a little, annoyed this was taking longer than expected. Soon they came upon another charming clearing with a slightly more established log-cabin thing going on. Satellite TV and a swimming pool and so on. Surely, this must be it! The boys rang the Rhapsody In Blue themed door-bell.

“Well hello” purred the slinky, red-headed occupant, opening the door just a smidge. What can I do for you, boys?”

Dangit, another woman! And a bombshell too, with a beguiling Southern accent of pure liquid smoke.

“Could you, ahem, tell us, ma’am, if we’re on the right path to the Lonesome Whiner’s residence?”

“Why, Ah really, couldn’t say. Ah’m just the Lil’ Ole Lonesome Winer but if Ah can help you with your enquahries, I’ve just opened a rather special 1990 Chateau Latour Pauillac and Ah’d sure be happy to offer you boys a glass.”

Did she just say 1990 Chateau Latour Pauillac? Deputy De Pute thoughticulated, which is like a quite pressing thought.

“Sorry, ma’am,” said Dent, tapping his badge. “We’re on duty and we gotta get on. Thanks all the same.”

The blithering idiot! The uncultured fool! Doesn’t he know how rare the Latour Pauillac is? And she, oh Lord, SHE was honey-accented perfection!

Fuming silently, De Pute, proceeded on, Dent taking the lead, unaware of his superior’s sulky face and throttling motions behind him.

Three more hours, threee more clearings, three more cabins and a Lonesome Interior Designer, Song Miner and Shoe-Shiner later, they were neither of them any more silent.

“What the merry hell is going on?” screamed Deputy De Pute. “How many Goddammed Lonesome people does this small-to-medium-sized forest have, for the love of Betsy? How can any of these folks be Lonesome? It’s like log-cabin Central Station up here!”

“Look at the time!” moaned Dent. “It’s after 4pm and it’ll be dark before we get back. We haven’t even found The Lonesome Whiner yet.” He sunk down onto a log and lit himself a soothing cigarette. “I was supposed to be placing Olga’s order tonight. Now someone else is going to get her. Some complete saddo, most probably.”

There was a pause before the Deputy replied.

“I don’t see why you want to be ordering up a Russian bride anyhow,” he said slowly, his forehead knitted with thought. “There’s a perfectly lovely Russian-named woman living just down the trail, and you know what a hog you are at mealtimes. I’d say if you took care to eat at opposite sides of the charming clearing you might be able to get along very nicely together indeed. I did notice a hungry look in her eyes when she surveyed your virile belly there, Dent. Hot, flavoursome love in the deep woods has got to be better than arresting people for expired tabs back home. Seems to me your future lies with the Lonesome Diner down there. But” he shrugged, “it’s your business, of course.”

“Huh! … I do believe you might have something there, Deputy!” The officer frowned. “She was a regular cutie for sure and I’m sure my fricassee of green beans would be pleasin’ to her. Maybe, in time, she could learn to love me, Deputy! Oh it feels so right, all of a sudden!”

He grabbed the Deputy by the lapels and gazed earnestly into his smiling eyes.

“I hereby tender my resignation, Sir,” he cried. “Effective immediately, if that’s OK with you. Now, I got me a romantic dinner to not have!”

If he’d been the type of man to skip, I’d have said that Officer Dent took off at a gleeful skip back down the trail. But he would not be happy to be remembered for his skipping, so I won’t. A little way down though, he stopped suddenly, and came charging back up the hill.

“But Deputy, Sir! Aren’t you a lover of fine wines and polo necks in your spare time? That woman four cabins ago…she had some pretty fancy wine in there and from the tan-mark round her neck, I’d say she was more than just a casual polo-neck wearer. There’s all the Janet you could ever need or desire. Right there – not 3 hours back! Oh Deputy, maybe we can both improbably find love and happiness!”

“My God, you’re right, Dent! She might be the only woman in the world with whom I can discuss the merits of carbonic maceration and Kohl’s winter knits! For once in my life I’m going to follow my heart and to hell with the consequences! Come on! What are we waiting for? Our possible new lives are waiting! Lets go, Dent, let’s go!”

And with that, the two men ran off back down the trail as fast as their legs would carry them, two lonesome Admirers searching for love in log-cabins.

And there we leave them, friends. Running, not proceeding.

But just to note: they did indeed find love and acceptance with the Lonesome Diner and the Lonesome Winer and all their beautiful children grew up together and in their turn, married each other in the old country way.

As for The Lonesome Whiner, who actually lived one forest over, he was never troubled about the murder, for it soon became clear that the real killer of the mayor was the Gregarious Hairdresser in the Salon with the tongs.

THE END

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