Hummalong

"Are you still mad at me," I asked the Elder Boy. "Or do you think it's funny now?"

I could see the Boy consider my question. Furrow was his brow, revealed in the rearview mirror as he watched Sherman, Texas speed by.

"Mad at what?" Wy asked.

"Mad at me." I answered. "I played a trick on Ethan a few weeks ago."

"YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!" Wy screamed at me.

"Dude," I said. "Don't talk to me like that. I do understand. You want me to tell you why he was mad at me, which I will, but not if you talk to me in that way."

"Please tell me the story." Wy pleaded.

"Here's the story," I said. "A few days ago I scared Ethan. It was a prank with the coffee pot..."

I was up first that morning, followed by the Elder Boy and Ruby the Dog. E did his normal bed down on the sofa with a blanket and watch cartoons while I let the dog go outside and do her business. Her business being urination. I had just closed the back door when the automatic coffee maker started, automatically, making that strange sucking and sputtering sound that they make.

"What's that?" E asked wide eyed. Concerned if not a bit scared.

"What's what?" I asked, knowing full well what he meant and what what was.

"That noise." he said. "Coming from the kitchen."

"What noise?" I asked, playing dumb.

"That noise in the kitchen," he said again as he pushed himself up on his elbows to get a better view over our bar into the kitchen.

"I don't know," I said walking cautiously around the bar and into the kitchen presumably to investigate.

I was half way into the kitchen when the coffee maker made a particular loud suck/sputter sound. That was when I suddenly spun on my heels, gasped as if in fear, and ran as fast I could out of the kitchen, around the bar, and out our back door.

"That's funny," Wy said.

"I thought so." I answered.

"Ethan?" Wy asked his brother who was in the seat behind him in the van.

"Yeah?" He replied.

"Were you scared?" He asked.

Nothing.

"When I came back in, a few seconds later, he was freaked out..." I said.

"That's funny." Wy said laughing. "He was scared of the coffee thing."

"Yeah," I agreed, "but he quickly went from being freaked out to mad. Bad."

"It's funny." Wy said again, laughing even harder.

"Yeah," I agreed again, "but at the time Ethan didn't think so, he kept telling me it wasn't funny and that I was mean. I told him I thought later, after some time passed, he'd think it was funny."

"Yeah." Wy said.

"So E, what do you think now. Are you still mad at me, and think that I'm mean, or do you think it is funny?"

"Yeah," he said. "It's funny."

"It is." Wy agreed.

"But it was kind of mean." Ethan added.

And you know what Dear Reader. Maybe it was, and I am, mean, because a week later, I don't know which is worse. That I did the prank in the first place, or that I still find it funny. Very funny.

"Maybe," I said. "I guess I better watch out, or you'll play a prank on me to pay me back, and if not you, maybe karma."

"What's karma?" Wy asked.

"Karma is..." I explained as we drove over the Red River into Oklahoma for our quarterly Mr. Mom trip to see Old Granny and Pops. Little did I know that I'd have a concrete example of karma by our return trip.

The next morning, I awoke, tired, from a rough night of sleep in a small bed with two Boy(s) and a dog. I think my Grandma's twin guest bed is actually older than me, which explains why the mattress isn't conducive to a restful sleep. In addition my Grandma lives in a very shitty part of town, that is near a major highway, Super Wal-Mart, steel mill, and surrounded by crack house homes. There are all sorts of things that go bump in the night in the Hall Edition, including the squawk of guinea fowl that roam freely through the neighborhood.

To fully understand the irony of what happened next it would help to have read The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, which is the very novel I had finished the night before, unable to sleep, while wedged in bed, between the Boy(s) and Ruby the Dog.

You see Dear Reader, in addition to waking up tired, I also woke with a strange tickle in the back of my throat. As the day progressed, so did the tickle, which by Sunday had rendered me mute, just like Edgar freaking Sawtelle.

Thus, my Sunday morning came down hard, unable to speak clearly, and faced with a Mr. Mom return trip to Texas with two Boy(s) and Ruby the Dog.

I did my best to explain to the Boy(s) that the cold I had been fighting, won, and had settled in my throat.

"It's important that Daddy doesn't talk much today," I squawked. "I have laryngitis and I need to rest my voice so it will get better."

"What?" they asked in unison.

"It's important that Daddy doesn't talk much today," I said again, straining to be heard so they'd understand. "I have laryngitis and I need to rest my voice so it will get better."

"Oh." Ethan said.

"I'm sorry your voice is sick." Wy added.

"Thanks guys." I rasped as we pulled out of a Quick Trip parking lot and headed home.

Their sweet sympathy lasted 20 minutes. We weren't even out of Glenpool when Wy said, "Dad."

I did my best to mimic the fact that I couldn't or shouldn't talk by grabbing my throat and shaking my head in a way that clearly meant no.

"What?" Wy asked, confused.

Again, I grabbed my throat, to indicate that I couldn't or shouldn't talk and I looked at the Boy through the rearview mirror while trying to keep our van traveling safely down the two lane highway.

"What?" Wy asked again.

"My voice!" I squawked. "Remember, Daddy's not supposed to talk. I need you guys to remember and let me rest my voice."

"Oh." Wy said.

"What did you want?" I rasped.

"Is it going to be a long time," he asked.

"YES!" I shouted. "It's the same amount of time, every time! You know that. Tulsa is a long way from Dallas!!!"

"I love you." Wy said, which sounds cute, until you realize that it was nothing more than his calculated attempt at placating my anger.

"And I'm sorry your voice is sick," he added.

Twenty minutes later the Elder Boy yelled from the back of the van, "Are we still in Oklahoma."

Nothing. I ignored him.

"Dad!" he yelled again, thinking I didn't hear him because of the music. "Dad!!! Dad!!! Are we still in Oklahoma!!!"

I gave him a slow burn look in the rearview mirror and again grabbed my throat in a way that meant I couldn't or shouldn't talk.

"What?" he yelled from the back of the van.

Shaking my head, I again grabbed my throat in a way that meant I couldn't or shouldn't talk.

"What?" he yelled.

I lost it.

"Son!" I screeched, "I can't talk, you know that!"

"Sorry." Ethan offered, waiting a few seconds and then asked, "But are we still in Oklahoma?"

"Fuck me!" I squawked.

"What?" they both asked in unison.

And so it went, every twenty minutes one of the Boy(s) asked me an inane 'are we there yet' type of question which I would try to answer in a non-verbal way, only to lose my cool and end up shouting an answer they couldn't hear or understand.

"What's karma." Wy had asked two days earlier, after I told him of the coffee pot prank on the Elder Boy.

Karma is losing your voice the day after you finished reading The Story of Edgar Sawtelle on a Mr. Mom trip and ending up playing what amounts to charades from hell with your children.

It has been over a week since that trip and my voice still isn't back to normal.

That's karma.

Until I BLOG again...Don't pave your path after anyone.