Like many others I lead an ordinary life. Up at dawn, get the kids ready, then my wife and I head to work. To spice up the story of my life, I enlisted the help of Lieutenant Frank Drebin. Follow along as the Police Squad operative narrates my life with bad puns and worse metaphors.
The day started like any other. With a clean shave and a dirty diaper. Not mine, but my son's. You see, I'm a father of two and a mother of none. Each morning I get my son ready for daycare, and like any other morning, I walked into his room and flipped on the light. He squinted at the ceiling, confused and bewildered. Like Sarah Palin in a science classroom. Or anywhere for that matter.
As I changed his diaper, I noticed his left testicle was still undecended. "Unusual but not unheard of." At least that's what his urologist Dr. Prickman told us.
The Train Station
The train station had a musty odor after last night's rain. The cracks in the concrete slowly leaked water down the stained walls. I made my way up the stairs like any other morning and caught sight of a grey heap lying haphazardly on the ground. I picked it up. It was a cardigan. A light weave. Made for late spring or early fall. With the scent of purfume from days long past.
I continued up the stairs holding the knitted garment. Someone had dropped it. And I was going to find out who.
The station was slow for a Monday morning. People milled about staring at their smartphones. Giggling over the mundane musings of friends...and kittens. I scanned the platform looking for this mystery lady. How would I find her? No doubt that a sophisticated anaysis of security footage would reveal the owner. But I didn't have time for sophisticated. The train was quickly approaching. Soon the moment would be lost. I had to act fast.
"Anyone lose a sweater?" I yelled. A bent woman slowly shuffled toward me. "Thank you sir" she said.
You're welcome lady. You're welcome.
I stepped off the elevator and stepped into a maze of cubicles. Row after row, line after line. Like a bolo tie on a fat man, I felt small and insignificant.
Walking toward my desk, I passed the usual suspects. The guy who insisted on signing his name with the Roman numeral "III" at the end. Next to him was a guy who told Asian jokes and said it was okay because he's a quarter Asian. Well, the other three quarters is an asshole.
I turned a corner and passed a software developer who said I reminded him of Steve Martin. He did the Egyptian walk whenever we passed in the hall. At the office Christmas party, he said he would buy me a ukulele. I'm still waiting.
Then there was the young lady in the back. She was from Minnesota, and yes, she was nice.
I sat at my desk trying to recover from the commute when I heard my boss one cube over talking on the phone in Icelandic.
"[Icelandic, Icelandic, Icelandic] reboot [Icelandic] start button."
Must be helping his mom with her computer again.
As I read the author's so called account, I began to get suspicious. My daughter sat looking at the book in rapt attention, unaware of my doubts. I kept them to myself. It was better that way.
You see, the author's tale was full of holes. Like a giant block of swiss cheese run through by rabid mice. It claimed that Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers. That's right. Pickled. Everyone knows that peppers come off the vine fresh. The pickling happens after they've been picked. But Peter Piper was picking 'em pre-pickled. And I smelled a rat.
Why was this author presenting a different version of the facts? Perhaps she suspected the children wouldn't wise up? Well, she didn't expect me. I pressed on page by page. I needed to find out more about this Peter fella.
It was a typical week night in sleepy suburban town. Mary and I settled down to watch a movie. We chose an old English yarn. Full of graceful ladies with smooshed boobs enduring the trials of courtship in 18th century England.
Damn Xbox. Our entire entertainment system depended on it. TV, blu-ray, DVD, on-demand, it controlled everything. The Skynet of our house. And it was refusing to respond to voice commands.
Where's Siri when you need her.
"Let's use the remote."
"I can't find it. Try the game controller."
"Game controller? Can you just get up and push the button?"
I reluctantly got up and moved toward the XBox. My finger shook slightly as it pressed the button.
I settled back down with my wife, ready to relax.
XBox play! XBox play! XBox play!
"Hello doll" I said as she swept through the bedroom door riding a pair of impossibly long legs. The curve of her neck stretched toward the ceiling. Like one of those African ladies. With the metal coils.
You see, it had been a long time since I'd seen the inside of a pair of frilly panties. And I wanted to take complete advantage of the moment.
"I'm gonna brush my teeth and get to bed" Mary said. "Oh, you forgot to take out the trash. And rotate the laundry while you're down there."
Things weren't going the way I expected. I was about to protest when I realized that, yes, I had indeed forgotten to take out the trash.
The trashcan scraped along the driveway as I dragged it to the curb. It was a bright night in a dark town. In the distance cicadas droned on with their shrill mating call. But it worked for them. Can't say the same for me.
"Hello doll?" What was I thinking? She was a sophisticated lady immune to cheap one liners.
I had to rethink my plan before the night got away. I turned around and looked up at the warm glow of the windows. Suddenly the lights flickered off.
Seduction ain't easy.