the fishing series (in progress) - 2000
Ruthie's Crush
This week Bowling & I got our wisdom teeth out. Dr. Fleischmann, the dentist, said they had to come out, because we couldn’t have anyone in Sublette with any wisdom, could we. I think he was joking, but I’m not sure. When Bowling and I first found out that
“Fleischmann” meant “Meatman” in English, we laughed. It kind of spooked me out this week, though, when I realized I’d have to have my mouth cut up by “Dr. Meatman”. After it was done, Dr. Fleischmann gave me some extra Novocaine to take home with me, so that was cool. Bowling thinks it’s funny that I’m puffy and he’s not. He says my face looks as blue and bloated as Uncle Dottie’s ass in winter. I don’t have a comeback, but see if I share my Novocaine with him.
But, the big advantage to being all swollen IS, I can’t talk properly. This time, we didn’t have to draw pencil tips to decide who would have to talk to Dad about his purple ears.
I got to watch, puffy and silent, while Bowling stepped up to Dad.
“Hey, Dad!”
……………….
“Hey, Dad! Hey, Ruthie! Hey, DadDadDadDadDadDadDadDadDAD! Ruthie!!”
“Oh, hey, Sport…..I must of dozed off for a minute there.”
“But, Dad, your eyes were open.”
“They were? Oh.”
I looked at Bowling. He was chewing his bottom lip like bubble gum.
“Hey, Dad. Ever seen something you’ve never seen before?”
“No. Like what?”
“I don’t know. Like a chicken with two heads.”
“Never seen a chicken with two heads. Never will. One head or no head. No such thing as a two-headed chicken.”
Bowling was taking the long road to the big question.
“But say you saw one, Dad.”
“Then I’d say someone snuck Lite Beer into my glass.”
“Yeah, Dad, say you saw a two-headed chicken one day, and then the next day you saw it AGAIN. And the day after that, too. Right in your own yard.”
“Well, then, I’d say there was either something up with the well or there was something up with that chicken.”
Then, out of nowhere, Bowling zinged him.
“Dad, why’ve your socks been matching every day all of a sudden?”
That’s when I saw Dad’s ears turn purpler than I’ve ever seen them.
Dad’s mouth fell to the floor, and we had to dust it off for him.
“Oh, boys. Oh, boys, boys, boys. You got old Ruthie tarred and feathered like an outlaw.”
He sighed, and stared at the floor for a long time.
He sighed again, then, quieter than a mosquito’s whisper:
“Boys, she likes to match my socks.”
Posted on décembre 18, 2001 10:42 AM