A Man's Worst Nightmare (continued from "You're Costing Me Money")
"Owen, did you bring the food?"
"The food?"
"Yes. The food for tonight "
"Uh-"
"Go back and get it."
"[Expletive, expletive, expletive]. Why didn't you say anything earlier? [Expletive, expletive. expletive]. I'm not going back! [Expletive], Gladys, you did this on purpose..."
We are waiting for the garage door to swing open and when it does, my dad juts through with only the merest space between the top of the car and the garage door. For some reason, both my mother and I compulsively hold our heads as he passes through, still swearing and refusing to turn back. But his words fade away as we swing onto the street which is covered in white fuzz and more is raining down as massive shopping bags of "toilet paper bombs" are deployed from windows above.
"Holy christmas," my dad turns to my mom but she turns to me instead to respond, still miffed with him from his earlier hijinks.
"Have the children gone mad?"
"This," I suddenly realize, " is why your neighbor looked like he'd just crawled out of a heating duct... he'd been toilet paper bombed."
"Yes, and never said a word to his elderly neighbors. Should've laughed even louder at him in the elevator."
"What should we do?" My dad is stopped in the ramp leading up to the street, still under the cover of the building.
"GO GET THE FOOD!" My mother whirls around on him and breathes the words like a dragon.
She startles my dad so bad he follows her command in a near frantic, almost knee-jerk response that has us turned back the other direction so fast that there's like a lag time - and I have to blink really hard to focus - before my brain catches up to present time.
Just as my dad is tapping the garage door opener though, four police swoop past us on motorcycles and block the doors.
"At this time, there will be no entries or exits from the parking garage until further notice," one of them announces into a megaphone.
By now two other cars are lined up in back of us to get into the building and as we wait for them to back out, my parents have already resumed the argument in their minds so it takes me a beat to figure out what they're talking about.
"Nothing doing." My dad is gripping the steering wheel rigidly and staring straight ahead.
"Yes. There. Is."
"Not doing it."
My mother breathes through her nose and fogs up the window on her side of the car - in nine thousand degree heat. Which means her breath is hotter than the air outside...
Slowly, my dad backs out and into a parking space on the street and there is silence.
A silence that builds and builds until it becomes this ominous cloud hanging over us. The kind of silence where you can tell the people are trying to choose their words carefully. Except not for the sake of prudence but for slice-and-dice-you-up, box-you-around-the-head-with-my-words type of effect. Before lightning strikes, I jump in the mix.
"I'll go get it," I say for the heck of it, not intending to go anywhere, but my dad opens his door and swings a leg out.
"No, Tucker, you stay in the car. And Gladys?"
My mother turns to him belligerently and he points a finger at her, standing in the door. Although it is very hard to take him seriously as he is already beginning to look like a zombie in a B movie, and keeps being overtaken by sneezing fits, and twitches every time debris falls in his eyes.
"This is the first and last stop. Once this car gets rolling, I'm not stopping again for one. [Expletive]. Thing!"
He slams the car door for emphasis and then disappears into the white haze, sneezing and twitching and swatting his way through the debris.
And I watch as a small mirthless smile indents my mother's face on one side.
"Tucker, I think," she shifts so she's facing forward again in her seat, "I'm going to have some fun with your father..."
"No, no, Mom, I can't take anymore of you all's fun!" I cry, fed up now.
"Oh yes. Revenge, my dear, is a dish best served cold..."
~Look for "Revenge Is A Dish Best Served Cold", another episode of Chronicles, next week~
#aging #comedy #funnystories
No comments:
Post a Comment