No one hates a know it all more than I do.
Especially when the know it all happens to be moi. And by Guildenstern if I did not set myself up for this one. I mean, if Paul Newman and Jackie Gleason would’ve been pickpocketing the sweet velvety rolls to a Friday night’s ransom, they could not have come up with a meaner, bigger or fatter bit of happenstance with which to shut my yap.
Consternation is the best way of putting it. Cause I was dismayed on a scale to fit Dante’s furnace beyond capacity. That frilly, silly little circle of hell and all its accoutrements wasn’t figuring on parental advice gone awry when they went doing all that poetic anger on the lonesome range of things way back in the day.
My dismay coming from the sound parental advice I always muster up to my brood. Which goes something like “Watch your shit, because if it gets lost you pay for it. I can pay for it, but if I do, you have to listen to my shit and what’s worse, you have to agree with it.”
I call that What to Expect After You’ve Been Born to Parents Who Know Better.
I’m not a Virgil. Hell, as far as I’m concerned? The Romans created Coliseums, Sbarro, and Martin Scorsese’s disturbing allegorical misfits. I’m not about to bother myself with all the rest of it.
Until tonight, that is. When I lost my wallet.
For men, losing a wallet is akin to God’s change up. And lemme tell you, that white bearded old SOB has a good one at the ready . . .
There IS a defense to this story, and it comes with no additional fee. I had just come from an early evening dalliance with my girl at the crib. Which, in Dante parlance means, a quickie. And from there I had to grab a dinner for my son, who was staying after school, and whose mother (my ex wife) was going to pick him up later and take him to her place.
That’s a lot of math for a guy to figure out by himself. Sorry on the whiny interval.
So I called him up for his dinner choice and he went with Subway. He is so smart, so young and so very dumb on food. But I moved forward on that order. I picked it up. Delivered it up. Turned around and picked up my little girl from my mother’s house. And we were off . . .
Excepting for one little thing. My wallet.
One little thing equals jest. Because truth be told, a man’s wallet . . ain’t jest. Us men can joke around all day and night on purses, but the truth of the matter is that our wallets matter, in a very apocalyptic way. Sidle up to a man who just lost his wallet and tell me otherwise. Just try . .
A man who loses his wallet is like Grant sleeping over in Richmond. It’s like Hiroshima, on crack. Okay, you want me to go really hardcore on your ass? It’s like the Super Bowl being blacked out to everyone other than Joe Biden. How’s about that for some not pretty stuff?
So, we’re getting back in the car when the girl spots something and yells “Hey Dad, what’s that?” And that, is when lo meets behold. There. Stuck in the side pocket . . of my car door. My wallet.With no thanks to Newman or Gleason. Nah. Just my little girl. Who always seems to catch her Dad on every important thing.
And I was caught. So I did what any responsible father would do in that instance. “Hey baby, let’s go shopping. Anything you want. On me.”And God bless her pretty little soul, she kept it on the cheap. With baking arrangements. You have no blessed idea how much I love this child, but there’s that.
So we’re baking tonight. The boy is away, so it’s just me and her and the cat and some really bad movie picks. Loading up on Chinese takeout and a batch of chocolate croissants. Which sounds and tastes much better than a lost wallet and hours of time on the phone with voices from another continent.
They really do rock.