Sunday, April 08, 2007
"What does P-U-L spell?"
Have you ever really wished that you could faint? I mean really dead-away fall flat and not wake up for a few . . . weeks? I suppose I've felt that way often enough, but seldom have I ever felt the need for a mild concussion when a girl was not involved. Where those of the fairer gender are concerned, I might just as well fall to the ground when I come within range, because, heaven knows, I'll wish with all that I have that I had been unconscious on the ground, with only drool coming out of my mouth, ten days later, when the realization of what a fool I was force me into paroxysms of mortal terror (mixed generously with sad whimper-giggles of self-deprecating humor) at what I've done.
I try to keep such self-derision under control, since such things can lead to more embarrassment, when the cashier (the non-mutant cashier, who is actually quite cute) at Walmart's smile falters ever so slightly as she motions you to her empty counter when she notices your crazy-man mumble- under- your- breath ("idiot.can'tbelieve you-- uh-oh, shut up, moron"). Instead, I try to save my self-loathing for my morning routine-- after all, it's easy to muster up negative feelings when a mirror is only a few feet away, and only occasionally indulge in the Walmart crazy- mumble.
The first time that I can remember such guilty terror was long before girls were a cause for terror, though their cooties were.
My daddy was a basketball coach, but he wasn't one of those coaches who abandon their children for the players, he was one of those coaches who makes a difference in the lives of kids and brings his family with him. I always wanted to be around my dad more, still do, truth be told, but he spent more time with me than most fathers ever spend, and I knew that he wished it could be even more.
So, dad took us with him to the games, and we liked watching them, for about a quarter, and then we liked to find quiet places to play, and occasionally lose control of a basketball, which would inevitably end up rolling across the court, or bounce into the stands, or trip an already clumsy-looking adult.
Dad was coaching the B team, and the main event (the varsity game), was in the final quarter when Dad went to make sure everything was cleaned up and everyone was out of the locker rooms. The visitors had evidently had a tough time with the lights, because Dad left me outside the locker room while he went to find the switch or breaker that had been turned off.
As I waited outside, I examined my environment, looking for entertainment. The stairs were fun, but I was not yet old enough to consider jumping them, as I did when I grew older; the vinyl on the walls offered little entertainment, and it was purple, a dreaded "girl" color, so I knew I must find fodder for my imagination elsewhere.
Suddenly, I saw it. The answer. The unknown. A puzzle. It was red and round and, evidently, stuck to the wall. It looked ever- so- slightly like a giant red door-knob to a hidden door. Not only that, but it had the beginning of the magical inscription placed on so many tantalizing entrances. P- U- I recognized this. Of the six words with which I was familiar, two began with these same two letters. I knew what to look for . . . either an ess and an aitch and I would push my way to adventure, or two els and I would pull adventure to me.
Unfortunately, what awaited me was wholly unexpected, P-U-L. "P-U-L," I said, "I don't know that one yet . . . DAD!," I said, loudly enough for dad to hear me above the sounds of running players and cheering fans, "What does P-U-L spell?"
"P-U-L doesn't spell anything," he said, blissfully unaware of the context from which I spoke, "but P-U-L-L spells pull."
Just then I saw the other el.
Let me pause right here to say that anything that one puts at kid-height should be either kid-proof or able to be fixed by a kid . . . the fire alarm that I pulled was neither. Not only was it kid-proof in all the wrong ways, it turned out that it was perversely adult-proof too.
As the spectators ran past I did my very best to press my body into the purple wall, actually, I was trying to press my body through it, all-the-while struggling for breath against my crippling panic. You may not believe me, but I quite clearly recall thinking, 'shouldn't I have fainted yet? am I not working hard enough at it?'
Dad came out and told me that it was not the end of the world, and the janitors came to tun it off, but they didn't have the key, so the alarm rang on, and my heart beat in great THUMPS until I escaped . . . and it still does, whenever that scene invades my thoughts.
I try to keep such self-derision under control, since such things can lead to more embarrassment, when the cashier (the non-mutant cashier, who is actually quite cute) at Walmart's smile falters ever so slightly as she motions you to her empty counter when she notices your crazy-man mumble- under- your- breath ("idiot.can'tbelieve you-- uh-oh, shut up, moron"). Instead, I try to save my self-loathing for my morning routine-- after all, it's easy to muster up negative feelings when a mirror is only a few feet away, and only occasionally indulge in the Walmart crazy- mumble.
The first time that I can remember such guilty terror was long before girls were a cause for terror, though their cooties were.
My daddy was a basketball coach, but he wasn't one of those coaches who abandon their children for the players, he was one of those coaches who makes a difference in the lives of kids and brings his family with him. I always wanted to be around my dad more, still do, truth be told, but he spent more time with me than most fathers ever spend, and I knew that he wished it could be even more.
So, dad took us with him to the games, and we liked watching them, for about a quarter, and then we liked to find quiet places to play, and occasionally lose control of a basketball, which would inevitably end up rolling across the court, or bounce into the stands, or trip an already clumsy-looking adult.
Dad was coaching the B team, and the main event (the varsity game), was in the final quarter when Dad went to make sure everything was cleaned up and everyone was out of the locker rooms. The visitors had evidently had a tough time with the lights, because Dad left me outside the locker room while he went to find the switch or breaker that had been turned off.
As I waited outside, I examined my environment, looking for entertainment. The stairs were fun, but I was not yet old enough to consider jumping them, as I did when I grew older; the vinyl on the walls offered little entertainment, and it was purple, a dreaded "girl" color, so I knew I must find fodder for my imagination elsewhere.
Suddenly, I saw it. The answer. The unknown. A puzzle. It was red and round and, evidently, stuck to the wall. It looked ever- so- slightly like a giant red door-knob to a hidden door. Not only that, but it had the beginning of the magical inscription placed on so many tantalizing entrances. P- U- I recognized this. Of the six words with which I was familiar, two began with these same two letters. I knew what to look for . . . either an ess and an aitch and I would push my way to adventure, or two els and I would pull adventure to me.
Unfortunately, what awaited me was wholly unexpected, P-U-L. "P-U-L," I said, "I don't know that one yet . . . DAD!," I said, loudly enough for dad to hear me above the sounds of running players and cheering fans, "What does P-U-L spell?"
"P-U-L doesn't spell anything," he said, blissfully unaware of the context from which I spoke, "but P-U-L-L spells pull."
Just then I saw the other el.
Let me pause right here to say that anything that one puts at kid-height should be either kid-proof or able to be fixed by a kid . . . the fire alarm that I pulled was neither. Not only was it kid-proof in all the wrong ways, it turned out that it was perversely adult-proof too.
As the spectators ran past I did my very best to press my body into the purple wall, actually, I was trying to press my body through it, all-the-while struggling for breath against my crippling panic. You may not believe me, but I quite clearly recall thinking, 'shouldn't I have fainted yet? am I not working hard enough at it?'
Dad came out and told me that it was not the end of the world, and the janitors came to tun it off, but they didn't have the key, so the alarm rang on, and my heart beat in great THUMPS until I escaped . . . and it still does, whenever that scene invades my thoughts.
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