Fessin’ Up

by Alan R. Wolcott

“Dad, there’s something I need to show you about the car...”

“How did that happen?”

“Well, Rachel had the map out and I was looking over to see where we were. Next thing I knew the bumper was scraping on the guard rail.”

Guilt is corrosive to the soul, and the paint job! At least this time I was able to identify when and where those dings came from—in fact, the fender bumped out rather nicely. Nothing festered.

My brother sweltered several years before muttering over the dinner table—was it at Dad and Mom’s 25th?—“Do you remember that Charger we had?” “Yes.” “Joe and I used to have a contest to see who could coast the farthest. We’d roar up the hill and toss it into neutral at the top just to see how far we’d roll. One day I was going about 55. . .” “Uh huh.” “Well, I missed.” “Hunh?” “It went into reverse. . . the transmission just seized up and the car bucked like a bronco—I thought I had ruined it!” “I guess so!” “When it stopped, I just shut the engine off, said a little prayer and waited a few minutes. Then I started the engine. . . ” “And?” “And I drove home. It still worked!” “I’ll bet you never tried that stunt again.” “Well, . . .”

Which reminds me, at Dad and Mom’s 50th I was making small talk with one of their many friends—a lady Mom’s age, of buxom proportions in a fine yellow dress. We were talking about the various experiences marriage had conveyed them through; well, she was talking and I was mostly saying, “Uh huh, mmmm” and so on. Anyway, Mom’s friend was holding a small plate with a large piece of cake. From the corner of my visual field I began noticing that she was steadily frostinating her bosom with every hand gesture. Several thoughts crossed my mind: “1) When is it appropriate to tell a woman that she has frosting on her boobs? 2) What should I say, ‘Excuse me, Mrs. Calderwell, I’ve noticed while we’ve been talking that you are icing your bustline’ or ‘This cake really doesn’t do anything for your décolletage.’ 3) Look for Mr. Calderwell, wave him over and whisper, ‘Your wife’s chest needs your attention.’ 4) Clumsily spill my cup of punch, hoping that as she looks down, Mrs. Calderwell would notice her own predicament.”

Ah, confession...

The boss should know that not every hurried walk down the hall, case in hand, precursors a medical consultation. Nor do questions about how things went at the last “Forum” imply genuine interest. More than one emergency call was planned after a meeting was called. Sometimes the “stale” air comes after and does not cause the coughing fit or restless foot shuffling—elevators aren’t the only place for borborygmi or a surreptitious petard! She should also know that “Trudy shoes,” “Windows,” and “Mice” have a logical Internet dis-connection. Not that I’m confessing.

But my son, should. “Did you speak to Jeremy?” Fred said. “About what?” “He sent me an e-mail. . .” For a week I had been looking for the red car at work that left its signature on my friend’s car wheel well. “The jerk didn’t have the decency to leave a note!” Later in the week I noticed that my car had a streak of non-factory silver. “Where’d that come from? What’s the matter with those people at work!”

“He said it was your fault” Fred chuckled. “Hunh?” “You parked funny in your driveway and he scraped it when he was backing out.” “Are you telling me that happened in my driveway?” “Yup!”

How long do I play dumb? I have his e-mail.

“Fess-up, boy!” It’s good for the soul.

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VT-Mustard Seed

Fessin’ Up

by Alan R. Wolcott