“You Gonna Do Some Prayin' for Me, Boy. And You Better Pray Real Good.”

I was in the office running my mouth, accentuating my point by quoting Diliverance, as I am wont to do, when my co-worker tilted her head the way Nipper does when he hears his master's voice coming out of the RCA Victrola. Smarter than the average bear, I took that to mean she wasn't getting the reference. (Like I said, “smarter than the average bear.”)

I tried to explain the movie to her—so she wouldn't be excluded from future celebrations of my wit—but I couldn't. I didn't and don't have the words. You don't, either. Even those gifted in the arts of narrative, those blessed as raconteurs, cannot “explain” Diliverance. That's because Diliverance has to be experienced. I accept that. There's no shame in being unable to tell its tale.

So, I told her to wait for a nice, fall, Seattle Saturday afternoon, i.e., overcast with a chill in the air that forces you to make hearty soups—which, as luck would have it, is every Saturday around here from September 1 to June 30—and then, while the soup is simmering, to pop in the DVD. She did.

She hasn't slept since. And she gets a chill whenever I mention her pretty mouth.

My work is done, here.