I saw something for the first time today, something I’ve never seen in 33 years of observing the world around me. I wasn’t witness to an extraordinary act of kindness or to some rare natural occurrence. No, today I saw human absurdity taken to new heights, to a place so beyond normal that the ridiculous becomes common. Today I saw a cat stroller.
Not a cat in a child’s stroller, but a cat stroller. And this cat was no kitty; the passenger was a full-grown ball of gray fur confined to a small, green wire basket on wheels. I’ve seen cat carriers at the airport and dogs in everything from bike baskets to backpacks, ferrets on a leash, free range iguanas that treated a living room like their own private fecal factory, but I’ve never seen a presumably domesticated feline in a rolling cage.
Normally I try not to stare at anyone or anything for too long, but I couldn’t avert my eyes from this mobile madness. The fluffy cat had just enough room to turn itself around in tight circles, an uncomfortable looking nose to tail loop. An accordion style sun bonnet printed with a faded flower pattern protected the out-of-the-house pet from the midday sun, but it was nearly 90 degrees! The cat’s coat was so thick that surviving a long winter at the North Pole would not have presented a problem. It must’ve been an oven under that gaudy sunshade!
In my neighborhood people say hello as they pass each other on the sidewalk; however, the cat lady didn’t even acknowledge me with a half smile. Her indifferent attitude toward me reinforced my belief that her little rolling circus act was quite weird. Surely she was aware of how ridiculous she looked pushing her prisoner pussy down the street.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
King of my Kitchen
It was 11 o’clock and the savory scent of cooked cow wafting from the broiler had me pacing around the kitchen like a starved lion hunting a wounded wildebeest. Thin white smoke escaped from the broiler only to be sucked away by the hood fan. Salivating with bloodlust, I flipped the slab of perfectly seared sirloin and gently sliced it to examine its tender, pink center. I let out a low growl of approval as I set the sizzling meat aside and bathed it in A-1 and Worcestershire sauces.
After two, seemingly endless minutes, I pounced with predatory fury; total carnage ensued. Imaginary death squeals filled my ears. Tuffs of fur drifted to the floor. The stabbing fork’s tines and slicing serrated knife blade clanked and scraped a high-pitch rhythm on the porcelain plate. Chewy bits of fat and tiny strands of tendon packed between my teeth. My tongue was slippery with juices. My teeth gnashed and gnawed at the succulent steak.
As the feast was devoured, my pace slowed and I soaked the remaining meaty morsels in the glistening pool of coagulated drippings, savoring the beast’s finale. Then, like a lion polishing bare bones with its rigid tongue, I spun the empty plate and slurped up any evidence of the steak’s existence.
Reclined on the sofa, my appetite satiated, I purred softly and drifted off to sleep. Vegetables are fine, but there is no substitute for a late night steak.
After two, seemingly endless minutes, I pounced with predatory fury; total carnage ensued. Imaginary death squeals filled my ears. Tuffs of fur drifted to the floor. The stabbing fork’s tines and slicing serrated knife blade clanked and scraped a high-pitch rhythm on the porcelain plate. Chewy bits of fat and tiny strands of tendon packed between my teeth. My tongue was slippery with juices. My teeth gnashed and gnawed at the succulent steak.
As the feast was devoured, my pace slowed and I soaked the remaining meaty morsels in the glistening pool of coagulated drippings, savoring the beast’s finale. Then, like a lion polishing bare bones with its rigid tongue, I spun the empty plate and slurped up any evidence of the steak’s existence.
Reclined on the sofa, my appetite satiated, I purred softly and drifted off to sleep. Vegetables are fine, but there is no substitute for a late night steak.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Turning the Screws
The pungent scent of Deet-filled bug spray, rivulets of salty sweat blinding my vision, an 1/8th-inch wrench in hand, oppressive heat that makes your legs sweat - I could've been in by father's garage on Hickory St. 22 years ago, working on my skateboard, but it was Monday and I was swapping out a tail light kit on my wife's suddenly beater Hyundai. Who would've guessed a cracked lens along with Virginia's stringent safety inspection requirements would create such a headache? An auto parts franchise quoted $300 for a new tail light kit. The Hyundai dealership mechanic was nervous he wouldn't be able to reinstall the new light due to the crushed rear quarter panel. The body shop said they'd have to replace the back fender, quarter panel and tail light, estimating over $1500 worth of work. The Internet said $156.00 would replace the entire tail light kit.
UPS delivered the part and I replaced the defective light in about 10 minutes. Four screws held the light in place. Four. The hardest part was pulling by hand the plastic rivets that fastened the trunk lining to the frame. Four screws. $156 compared to $1500+.
Sure the car still looks like a candidate for demolition derby, but at least the light will pass the inspection. When you know you'll never resell a vehicle, cosmetics become a secondary concern.
UPS delivered the part and I replaced the defective light in about 10 minutes. Four screws held the light in place. Four. The hardest part was pulling by hand the plastic rivets that fastened the trunk lining to the frame. Four screws. $156 compared to $1500+.
Sure the car still looks like a candidate for demolition derby, but at least the light will pass the inspection. When you know you'll never resell a vehicle, cosmetics become a secondary concern.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Heaven On Earth
My confidence in atheism was soundly shaken today. Not to overstate this, but my entire belief system rattled like an empty beer can on a train platform. After my inaugural pilgrimage to Total Wine & More, I’ve come to believe that God does exits and that he’s the owner of 55 superstores in 10 states. Surely no mere mortal could create a franchise that boasts over 8,000 wines and more than 1,000 beers at each location. This feat deserves a chapter in the Bible, or at least a few pages in Genesis! “And on the sixth day the lord created Total Wine & More.”
Much like a visitor to the National Cathedral in D.C., I slowly moved along the aisles, reading the sacred scripture on the colored labels. Cases of microbrews and exotic imports were stacked high, creating chapels in which to worship the holy beverages. Employees clad in white uniforms moved unobtrusively through the store like angels. The store was a temple devoted to beer and wine, and I was in heaven.
According to the store’s buying guide, communion is held on Fridays and Saturdays from noon to 6 p.m.
Much like a visitor to the National Cathedral in D.C., I slowly moved along the aisles, reading the sacred scripture on the colored labels. Cases of microbrews and exotic imports were stacked high, creating chapels in which to worship the holy beverages. Employees clad in white uniforms moved unobtrusively through the store like angels. The store was a temple devoted to beer and wine, and I was in heaven.
According to the store’s buying guide, communion is held on Fridays and Saturdays from noon to 6 p.m.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
A Brief Interruption
Let me begin by saying thank you to anyone who still reads this blog, as it hasn’t been updated in about five months. Funnily enough, my second son is about five months old now. Hmm, coincidence?
Actually that’s not fair to blame the little guy for my laziness. The itch I felt to blog began in the dark and lonely depths of the Major League Baseball off-season. My creative duties at the office had ground to a halt leading up to the holiday break. I needed an outlet, so I began Deliberately Unintentional.
Of course, my life got busier than ever with the arrival of Colton, and all of a sudden I was knee-deep in creating a 36-page annual report for work. The creative itch was scratched to the point of bleeding. But I’m back now, and I intend to post new stories regularly. I’m going to try and keep posts short and sweet this time, around 500 words. Thanks for sticking with me. Let’s have some laughs.
Actually that’s not fair to blame the little guy for my laziness. The itch I felt to blog began in the dark and lonely depths of the Major League Baseball off-season. My creative duties at the office had ground to a halt leading up to the holiday break. I needed an outlet, so I began Deliberately Unintentional.
Of course, my life got busier than ever with the arrival of Colton, and all of a sudden I was knee-deep in creating a 36-page annual report for work. The creative itch was scratched to the point of bleeding. But I’m back now, and I intend to post new stories regularly. I’m going to try and keep posts short and sweet this time, around 500 words. Thanks for sticking with me. Let’s have some laughs.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Three Pillars of Wisdom Remain
“Wow! Those are the longest roots I’ve ever seen! Come over here. Look how deep they go!”
Talk about words you don’t want to hear when having a wisdom tooth removed. I had come in to have a filling replaced, but was given the surprise news that the tooth had broken beneath the gum line and should be removed. Yes, I still had all four of my wisdom teeth; I never saw any reason to pull perfectly good chompers. This time, though, the dentist explained my options in terms I could understand.
“Well, you can either spend $3000 to build up the wall of a tooth you don’t need, refill it and cap it. Or, you can spend $100 and have it removed.” There’s nothing like simple economics to help me make a decision.
Most people really dislike visiting the dentist; I am not one of them. Maybe it’s because my childhood dentist rewarded good check-ups with silly novelty toys like rubber monster pencil-toppers and superballs. I was always fascinated with the large aquarium full of colorful fish in the waiting room, too.
Maybe I don’t mind visiting the dentist because my dentists always seem to have a twisted sense of humor. One time, a dentist approached my mouth with a pipe wrench in hand. I found it more amusing than intimidating. That same dentist gave me virtual reality glasses to watch animated, 3-D films set to electronically produced mood music. Imagine a Salvador Dali painting coming to life or an M.C. Escher illustration full of floating geometric shapes. It was pretty neat technology for the early 1990s, and it worked to keep my mind off of the high-pitch whine of the drill and the acrid smell of burning teeth.
I really haven’t had any terrible experiences at the dentist. My first cavity grew to the size of a small crater because I didn’t know what a cavity was. I could fit the tip of my tongue inside of it. When I finally had the hole filled, I didn’t receive enough Novocain to fully numb the affected area, so I felt almost every prick and poke of the stainless steel pick and every rotation of the drill bit. My back would arch as the dentist hit my nerve. Still, I never classified that feeling to be pain. Rather, I filed the sensation under the category of extreme discomfort. To me, real pain was misreading a skateboard trick and bouncing down an iron handrail in my own version of the Nutcracker. Real pain was sitting in an office chair with 18 staples holding my abdominal wall together after a hernia surgery.
I have seen all types of dentist offices over the years. One time I visited a dentist in Queens, where the walls were covered in old faux wood paneling that was peeling up from the floor. The ceiling was stained with rust-colored water marks. Dust and dirt were visible in the corners of the room, and some of the instruments had bite marks from previous patients. Those small details were offset by the sexy Latina dental assistant with the flirty chair-side manner. More recently, I visited a dentist who had a bowl of peppermint candy at the checkout window. I guess they wanted to guarantee a return visit.
So when I arrived at the dentist’s office located next to a ka-bob restaurant in a small strip mall, I wasn’t worried or even apprehensive about the emergency visit. The young receptionists gave me my paperwork and a pen topped with a kitschy flower, and I sank into an oversized leather sofa and casually watched a rerun of some CSI-type show on the big flat-screen TV.
After the first dentist looked inside my mouth, she was dumfounded to find that one of my previous mouth mechanics had filled a wisdom tooth instead of simply removing it. She immediately brought in the oral surgeon, who sent me for an X-ray.
The X-ray was machine was new to me. An assistant walked me over to a machine connected to the wall and told me to stand still. She pointed to what looked like a miniature white condom over a plastic bite stick. I was instructed to bite the notch in the end while she adjusted the machine to my height. I could barely make eye contact with myself in the mirror. Who would want to see themselves in such a compromised position?
The machine slowly rotated around my entire head with a robotic hum. I thought it was going to hit my shoulders, but it didn’t even graze my shirt. The image of my closed jaws was ready instantly, and the women crowded around the backlit photo to admire my aforementioned elongated roots.
When the oral surgeon presented me with the simple economics of the situation: $3000 to fix a useless tooth or $100 to evict it from its home of 30+ years, I signed the release forms about as fast I sign checks made out to me.
It wasn’t long before I felt the pinch of the stainless steel needle delivering the local anesthetic. I could feel my gums tighten and resist before the sharp point pierced through the soft tissue.
With a tingling chin and tongue, the surgeon began to yank at the remaining stump of my tooth. Her stated goal was to try and avoid cutting it out, which meant she was going to pull and twist until the tooth loosened in its socket. If you ever hear a dentist say, “You may feel a little pressure,” prepare to get brutalized.
One lady held my chin and cheek while the other ripped at the tooth with a pair of pliers. The pliers slipped and slammed into my upper teeth on the side of my mouth in which I still had feeling. I groaned when asked if I was alright. The surgeon asked if I was nervous as she wiped beads of sweat from my brow. It wasn’t nerves; it was the blazing heat of the lamp combined with the contracted muscles of my arms and hands, which were gripping the seat involuntarily.
She asked me if I’d like some nitrous oxide, “You know, laughing gas.” I really didn’t want to be unconscious for my first tooth extraction so I told her I’d take the gas only if she had some dance music, which got the two ladies laughing. Maybe if they’d have offered me some 3-D virtual reality goggles I’d have accepted their offer.
Then I heard a sickening crack as the surgeon snapped off a piece of tooth and exclaimed in exasperation, “Looks like we’ll be cutting it out.”
The hissing plastic vacuum jammed between my teeth and cheek choked and gurgled with fresh blood as the surgeon slit my gums with her scalpel. I couldn’t feel a thing.
After some more digging, jabbing, wrenching, twisting and grunting, the dentist gave up and employed some buzzing tool to remove the top of my tooth, which she gave to me for inspection. I took a quick photo with my phone and then pointed the camera at my mouth to document the gory procedure.
With the visible portion of my tooth out of her way, the surgeon went after the subterranean roots. While I was trying to see my mouth in the reflection on her plastic face shield, three dark drops of blood sprayed across its glossy surface. “Oh, my God! Is it in my hair?” she asked the assistant. It wasn’t, but it forced a satisfied smile from my stretched, cracked lips.
The surgeon and the assistant disagreed about whether a small piece of root still remained embedded in my gums or not. They arranged for another X-ray. This one was administered in my chair and didn’t require any humiliating poses in front of an ill-placed vanity mirror.
Suddenly, the assistant began shrieking and stomping her feet. Apparently, my numb jaw had closed on her finger like a vice. I always tell my kid to expect to be bitten if you put your hands in someone’s mouth. I’d think that lesson would be in the first lecure of Dentist 101.
The assistant’s hypothesis was proven true when a chunk of root appeared on the screen. The surgeon attacked it again, and after 10 more minutes of head-shaking hilarity, she had the tiny sliver of tooth in hand.
I reconsidered their offer of nitrous, and asked if they had a canister to go. The assistant gave me a wink and said she wished she had some at home, too.
After a quick cleanup, some directions on how to care for the gaping hole inside my mouth, and a prescription for some paralyzing pharmaceutical pain relief, I was on my way.
“Have a great weekend!” the team called as I left. “Thanks. I’m sure I won’t remember any of it.”
The office didn’t try to buy my love with candy or cheap toys, but the surgeon did tell me she saw plenty of other things to fix. The tools were bite-free and the women were amiable, so I’m sure I’ll be seeing them again real soon.
Talk about words you don’t want to hear when having a wisdom tooth removed. I had come in to have a filling replaced, but was given the surprise news that the tooth had broken beneath the gum line and should be removed. Yes, I still had all four of my wisdom teeth; I never saw any reason to pull perfectly good chompers. This time, though, the dentist explained my options in terms I could understand.
“Well, you can either spend $3000 to build up the wall of a tooth you don’t need, refill it and cap it. Or, you can spend $100 and have it removed.” There’s nothing like simple economics to help me make a decision.
Most people really dislike visiting the dentist; I am not one of them. Maybe it’s because my childhood dentist rewarded good check-ups with silly novelty toys like rubber monster pencil-toppers and superballs. I was always fascinated with the large aquarium full of colorful fish in the waiting room, too.
Maybe I don’t mind visiting the dentist because my dentists always seem to have a twisted sense of humor. One time, a dentist approached my mouth with a pipe wrench in hand. I found it more amusing than intimidating. That same dentist gave me virtual reality glasses to watch animated, 3-D films set to electronically produced mood music. Imagine a Salvador Dali painting coming to life or an M.C. Escher illustration full of floating geometric shapes. It was pretty neat technology for the early 1990s, and it worked to keep my mind off of the high-pitch whine of the drill and the acrid smell of burning teeth.
I really haven’t had any terrible experiences at the dentist. My first cavity grew to the size of a small crater because I didn’t know what a cavity was. I could fit the tip of my tongue inside of it. When I finally had the hole filled, I didn’t receive enough Novocain to fully numb the affected area, so I felt almost every prick and poke of the stainless steel pick and every rotation of the drill bit. My back would arch as the dentist hit my nerve. Still, I never classified that feeling to be pain. Rather, I filed the sensation under the category of extreme discomfort. To me, real pain was misreading a skateboard trick and bouncing down an iron handrail in my own version of the Nutcracker. Real pain was sitting in an office chair with 18 staples holding my abdominal wall together after a hernia surgery.
I have seen all types of dentist offices over the years. One time I visited a dentist in Queens, where the walls were covered in old faux wood paneling that was peeling up from the floor. The ceiling was stained with rust-colored water marks. Dust and dirt were visible in the corners of the room, and some of the instruments had bite marks from previous patients. Those small details were offset by the sexy Latina dental assistant with the flirty chair-side manner. More recently, I visited a dentist who had a bowl of peppermint candy at the checkout window. I guess they wanted to guarantee a return visit.
So when I arrived at the dentist’s office located next to a ka-bob restaurant in a small strip mall, I wasn’t worried or even apprehensive about the emergency visit. The young receptionists gave me my paperwork and a pen topped with a kitschy flower, and I sank into an oversized leather sofa and casually watched a rerun of some CSI-type show on the big flat-screen TV.
After the first dentist looked inside my mouth, she was dumfounded to find that one of my previous mouth mechanics had filled a wisdom tooth instead of simply removing it. She immediately brought in the oral surgeon, who sent me for an X-ray.
The X-ray was machine was new to me. An assistant walked me over to a machine connected to the wall and told me to stand still. She pointed to what looked like a miniature white condom over a plastic bite stick. I was instructed to bite the notch in the end while she adjusted the machine to my height. I could barely make eye contact with myself in the mirror. Who would want to see themselves in such a compromised position?
The machine slowly rotated around my entire head with a robotic hum. I thought it was going to hit my shoulders, but it didn’t even graze my shirt. The image of my closed jaws was ready instantly, and the women crowded around the backlit photo to admire my aforementioned elongated roots.
When the oral surgeon presented me with the simple economics of the situation: $3000 to fix a useless tooth or $100 to evict it from its home of 30+ years, I signed the release forms about as fast I sign checks made out to me.
It wasn’t long before I felt the pinch of the stainless steel needle delivering the local anesthetic. I could feel my gums tighten and resist before the sharp point pierced through the soft tissue.
With a tingling chin and tongue, the surgeon began to yank at the remaining stump of my tooth. Her stated goal was to try and avoid cutting it out, which meant she was going to pull and twist until the tooth loosened in its socket. If you ever hear a dentist say, “You may feel a little pressure,” prepare to get brutalized.
One lady held my chin and cheek while the other ripped at the tooth with a pair of pliers. The pliers slipped and slammed into my upper teeth on the side of my mouth in which I still had feeling. I groaned when asked if I was alright. The surgeon asked if I was nervous as she wiped beads of sweat from my brow. It wasn’t nerves; it was the blazing heat of the lamp combined with the contracted muscles of my arms and hands, which were gripping the seat involuntarily.
She asked me if I’d like some nitrous oxide, “You know, laughing gas.” I really didn’t want to be unconscious for my first tooth extraction so I told her I’d take the gas only if she had some dance music, which got the two ladies laughing. Maybe if they’d have offered me some 3-D virtual reality goggles I’d have accepted their offer.
Then I heard a sickening crack as the surgeon snapped off a piece of tooth and exclaimed in exasperation, “Looks like we’ll be cutting it out.”
The hissing plastic vacuum jammed between my teeth and cheek choked and gurgled with fresh blood as the surgeon slit my gums with her scalpel. I couldn’t feel a thing.
After some more digging, jabbing, wrenching, twisting and grunting, the dentist gave up and employed some buzzing tool to remove the top of my tooth, which she gave to me for inspection. I took a quick photo with my phone and then pointed the camera at my mouth to document the gory procedure.
With the visible portion of my tooth out of her way, the surgeon went after the subterranean roots. While I was trying to see my mouth in the reflection on her plastic face shield, three dark drops of blood sprayed across its glossy surface. “Oh, my God! Is it in my hair?” she asked the assistant. It wasn’t, but it forced a satisfied smile from my stretched, cracked lips.
The surgeon and the assistant disagreed about whether a small piece of root still remained embedded in my gums or not. They arranged for another X-ray. This one was administered in my chair and didn’t require any humiliating poses in front of an ill-placed vanity mirror.
Suddenly, the assistant began shrieking and stomping her feet. Apparently, my numb jaw had closed on her finger like a vice. I always tell my kid to expect to be bitten if you put your hands in someone’s mouth. I’d think that lesson would be in the first lecure of Dentist 101.
The assistant’s hypothesis was proven true when a chunk of root appeared on the screen. The surgeon attacked it again, and after 10 more minutes of head-shaking hilarity, she had the tiny sliver of tooth in hand.
I reconsidered their offer of nitrous, and asked if they had a canister to go. The assistant gave me a wink and said she wished she had some at home, too.
After a quick cleanup, some directions on how to care for the gaping hole inside my mouth, and a prescription for some paralyzing pharmaceutical pain relief, I was on my way.
“Have a great weekend!” the team called as I left. “Thanks. I’m sure I won’t remember any of it.”
The office didn’t try to buy my love with candy or cheap toys, but the surgeon did tell me she saw plenty of other things to fix. The tools were bite-free and the women were amiable, so I’m sure I’ll be seeing them again real soon.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Friday Night Blockbuster
When my son scurried through a tiny porthole in the bottom of the indoor slide at daycare excitedly repeating “hiding, hiding” instead of letting me help him with his hat and coat, I should have seen the signs and abandoned my plan to stop at Blockbuster to pick up a film for the evening. But like the captain who foolishly attempted to steer the Titanic through a minefield of floating ice, my trip to the movie store was doomed from the start.
The moment we entered the store, the boy was off like a blonde comet. His hair flowed straight back over his head as he shot down the nearest aisle chanting, “running, running”. When I finally caught up with him, he had stopped in front of a rack of animated films and was clutching the Kung-fu Panda 2-Pack with both hands. The promotional slogan on the DVD case read, “Pure Pandamoninum,” which quite accurately described the havoc the boy was about to wreak upon the store.
Faster than Po snatching a dumpling with his chopsticks, the boy was off and running again. He hit the brakes when he spotted the animated Pixar film Cars, but was back in high gear the second he had the DVD placeholder in hand. I used the mirror along the top of the wall to find him after he whipped around the corner and disappeared. A disciplined Army soldier in camouflage fatigues employed stood stoically by, avoiding engagement by ignoring the father-son tag game taking place around him. I grabbed the boy, returned the marker to the shelf and had just enough time to grab a copy of Wall-E before the boy began to squirm wildly. I set him down and, once again, he sped off.
This time when I caught up to the boy, he had reached the front of the store and was trying to carry a cardboard M&M’s candy display in his arms. He set it down when I approached and pointed to a graphic of a Christmas tree in a wagon and told me, “wagon! wagon!”. I straightened the display and picked the excited boy up and headed toward the foreign films section to find the English-subtitled film Amorres Perros
The boy managed to stay with me for about 30 seconds as I perused the various foreign titles. I barely had time to finish reading the first few rows when the boy got bored and raced off. I renewed the chase and found the boy showing off a copy of a Spiderman game made for Nintendo’s Wii to smiling woman. I was proud to hear the boy say “Spiderman” so enthusiastically.
I didn’t have time to stay and chat, the boy was dashing away at full speed again. I heard him say “choo-choo” from the next aisle. I sprinted around the corner and found a Thomas the Train DVD lying despondently on the floor and spotted the boy at the end of the aisle with a copy of a PowerRangers movie. He said “scary” when I approached. Scary, I thought? The only thing scary about the PowerRangers is their dorky costumes and lame storyline.
The boy knocked a couple more movies onto the floor and bolted around the corner. I passed the woman again and she said, “Looks like you’re doing a good job wearing him down, Dad.” I not-so-wittily replied, “Well, one of us will be worn down by the time we’re done. We’ll see.”
A hat? Where did the boy get a hat? I panned around the back of the store and spotted a pile of Indiana Jones ball caps on the floor. The boy must have pulled the hanging hat display down. I did my best to reattach the clip strip and rearrange the hats, but (does this sound familiar yet?) they boy was off running again.
I grabbed a copy of Max Payne as I swooped down and picked up my speedy son. I was determined to finish looking through the foreign films to find Amorres Perros. Of course, within 15 seconds or so, the boy was done being held and wandered off at a bit slower pace as if he knew he could slip away unnoticed if he took his time.
I wasn’t having any luck finding my movie, so I went looking for the boy. Just then, he came around the corner proudly showing me a baseball in his raised hands. I asked him where he had found a baseball and then noticed a chuckling man in a gray hooded sweatshirt with a baseball glove tucked under his arm. He overheard me tell the boy to give the ball back and said, “No, it’s his ball now. He wants to be a baseball player.” The boy tossed the ball lightly to the man, who then tossed it back in a failed attempt to get my son to catch it. While they played, I frantically searched the movie titles in front of me for a better option than Max Payne. The man’s teenage son approached with a puzzled look when he saw his baseball in my boy’s hands.
I saw the man and his son leave as we entered the line to check out. I had intended to give the ball back, but the two left the store without even a look back.
I was irritated to find a slow-moving line waiting on a single cashier. This was it. The ship had hit the iceberg the minute we entered the store; had taken on water with every chase down the aisles; and now that I was trapped in a glacially slow line surrounded by every type of tempting candy and novelty toy imaginable, the ship was now breaking in half and about to sink into the icy sea.
The boy couldn’t contain himself. He shook the Skittles. He threw SweetTarts on the floor. He pretended to drink the small candy soda bottles. I showed him how to press the button on some gizmo to make a helicopter’s rotors spin. That held his attention for about five seconds and elicited a “yay” before he cast it aside and grabbed something else.
I tried holding him, but anyone who has ever experienced the dreaded “arched back” temper tantrum precursor knows when to put a toddler down to avoid a major meltdown. I opted to simply pick up and replace everything the boy dropped. I noticed a second Blockbuster employee who seemed to be restocking shelves. It occurred to me that he fit the typical movie store worker stereotype: Late thirties, balding, overweight, unshaven, saggy, worn blue jeans barely held up by a tattered belt, and thick, dark-rimmed glasses. I watched him closely to see if he’d open the second register, but he didn’t even glance at the line of impatient customers.
Finally, we were next in line. I was grateful that we hadn’t had anything too embarrassing happen yet. But the boy became fixated on a large, plastic carton of Sour Gummi Worms and wouldn’t put them down. He slipped around the back of the display and out of my sight, so I went after him. The boy jammed the carton of chewy candy onto the rack from the back side, knocking a number of containers onto the floor in the process. We were so close to paying for our movies and sailing the life raft to safety! Instinctively, I dipped down and picked him up with one arm and tried to sneak through a small gap in the displays before I lost my spot in line. I made it through fine, but the boy’s legs swung around and sent an entire box of framed posters reeling. One by one, in slow motion, the posters pitched forward and crashed to the floor.
As I stared down at the Joker’s twisted, red smile, a cold sweat gathered on my forehead and I muttered in exasperation, “This is all pretty funny, eh?”
The cashier and the other previously unmotivated employee rushed over to pick up the frames. I took stock of the faces of the other customers in line, which ranged from amused to annoyed, to angry. The ship was vertical now and sinking fast.
And then, like a captain resigned to going down with his ship, with nothing left to lose, I lost my temper and called out in frustration, “Where’s the second cashier on a Friday night? Look at this line!”
The patient girl ignored my outburst and completed our checkout with a vexed smile. At last, the boy and I drifted through the exit, wet and cold, but still afloat. We had managed to cling to Wall-E and Max Payne just long enough to avoid the spinning vortex of the sinking ship and the icy depths below.
The moment we entered the store, the boy was off like a blonde comet. His hair flowed straight back over his head as he shot down the nearest aisle chanting, “running, running”. When I finally caught up with him, he had stopped in front of a rack of animated films and was clutching the Kung-fu Panda 2-Pack with both hands. The promotional slogan on the DVD case read, “Pure Pandamoninum,” which quite accurately described the havoc the boy was about to wreak upon the store.
Faster than Po snatching a dumpling with his chopsticks, the boy was off and running again. He hit the brakes when he spotted the animated Pixar film Cars, but was back in high gear the second he had the DVD placeholder in hand. I used the mirror along the top of the wall to find him after he whipped around the corner and disappeared. A disciplined Army soldier in camouflage fatigues employed stood stoically by, avoiding engagement by ignoring the father-son tag game taking place around him. I grabbed the boy, returned the marker to the shelf and had just enough time to grab a copy of Wall-E before the boy began to squirm wildly. I set him down and, once again, he sped off.
This time when I caught up to the boy, he had reached the front of the store and was trying to carry a cardboard M&M’s candy display in his arms. He set it down when I approached and pointed to a graphic of a Christmas tree in a wagon and told me, “wagon! wagon!”. I straightened the display and picked the excited boy up and headed toward the foreign films section to find the English-subtitled film Amorres Perros
The boy managed to stay with me for about 30 seconds as I perused the various foreign titles. I barely had time to finish reading the first few rows when the boy got bored and raced off. I renewed the chase and found the boy showing off a copy of a Spiderman game made for Nintendo’s Wii to smiling woman. I was proud to hear the boy say “Spiderman” so enthusiastically.
I didn’t have time to stay and chat, the boy was dashing away at full speed again. I heard him say “choo-choo” from the next aisle. I sprinted around the corner and found a Thomas the Train DVD lying despondently on the floor and spotted the boy at the end of the aisle with a copy of a PowerRangers movie. He said “scary” when I approached. Scary, I thought? The only thing scary about the PowerRangers is their dorky costumes and lame storyline.
The boy knocked a couple more movies onto the floor and bolted around the corner. I passed the woman again and she said, “Looks like you’re doing a good job wearing him down, Dad.” I not-so-wittily replied, “Well, one of us will be worn down by the time we’re done. We’ll see.”
A hat? Where did the boy get a hat? I panned around the back of the store and spotted a pile of Indiana Jones ball caps on the floor. The boy must have pulled the hanging hat display down. I did my best to reattach the clip strip and rearrange the hats, but (does this sound familiar yet?) they boy was off running again.
I grabbed a copy of Max Payne as I swooped down and picked up my speedy son. I was determined to finish looking through the foreign films to find Amorres Perros. Of course, within 15 seconds or so, the boy was done being held and wandered off at a bit slower pace as if he knew he could slip away unnoticed if he took his time.
I wasn’t having any luck finding my movie, so I went looking for the boy. Just then, he came around the corner proudly showing me a baseball in his raised hands. I asked him where he had found a baseball and then noticed a chuckling man in a gray hooded sweatshirt with a baseball glove tucked under his arm. He overheard me tell the boy to give the ball back and said, “No, it’s his ball now. He wants to be a baseball player.” The boy tossed the ball lightly to the man, who then tossed it back in a failed attempt to get my son to catch it. While they played, I frantically searched the movie titles in front of me for a better option than Max Payne. The man’s teenage son approached with a puzzled look when he saw his baseball in my boy’s hands.
I saw the man and his son leave as we entered the line to check out. I had intended to give the ball back, but the two left the store without even a look back.
I was irritated to find a slow-moving line waiting on a single cashier. This was it. The ship had hit the iceberg the minute we entered the store; had taken on water with every chase down the aisles; and now that I was trapped in a glacially slow line surrounded by every type of tempting candy and novelty toy imaginable, the ship was now breaking in half and about to sink into the icy sea.
The boy couldn’t contain himself. He shook the Skittles. He threw SweetTarts on the floor. He pretended to drink the small candy soda bottles. I showed him how to press the button on some gizmo to make a helicopter’s rotors spin. That held his attention for about five seconds and elicited a “yay” before he cast it aside and grabbed something else.
I tried holding him, but anyone who has ever experienced the dreaded “arched back” temper tantrum precursor knows when to put a toddler down to avoid a major meltdown. I opted to simply pick up and replace everything the boy dropped. I noticed a second Blockbuster employee who seemed to be restocking shelves. It occurred to me that he fit the typical movie store worker stereotype: Late thirties, balding, overweight, unshaven, saggy, worn blue jeans barely held up by a tattered belt, and thick, dark-rimmed glasses. I watched him closely to see if he’d open the second register, but he didn’t even glance at the line of impatient customers.
Finally, we were next in line. I was grateful that we hadn’t had anything too embarrassing happen yet. But the boy became fixated on a large, plastic carton of Sour Gummi Worms and wouldn’t put them down. He slipped around the back of the display and out of my sight, so I went after him. The boy jammed the carton of chewy candy onto the rack from the back side, knocking a number of containers onto the floor in the process. We were so close to paying for our movies and sailing the life raft to safety! Instinctively, I dipped down and picked him up with one arm and tried to sneak through a small gap in the displays before I lost my spot in line. I made it through fine, but the boy’s legs swung around and sent an entire box of framed posters reeling. One by one, in slow motion, the posters pitched forward and crashed to the floor.
As I stared down at the Joker’s twisted, red smile, a cold sweat gathered on my forehead and I muttered in exasperation, “This is all pretty funny, eh?”
The cashier and the other previously unmotivated employee rushed over to pick up the frames. I took stock of the faces of the other customers in line, which ranged from amused to annoyed, to angry. The ship was vertical now and sinking fast.
And then, like a captain resigned to going down with his ship, with nothing left to lose, I lost my temper and called out in frustration, “Where’s the second cashier on a Friday night? Look at this line!”
The patient girl ignored my outburst and completed our checkout with a vexed smile. At last, the boy and I drifted through the exit, wet and cold, but still afloat. We had managed to cling to Wall-E and Max Payne just long enough to avoid the spinning vortex of the sinking ship and the icy depths below.
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