gallows humor
My execution was scheduled for eight o'clock that evening, but with the girls to pick up from soccer practice and dinner to prepare I was feeling that I might accidentally fulfill the old adage regarding tardiness at one's own funeral. You must forgive my scatter-mindedness. Clara is away at her mother's, but should be back before supper, estimated to appear on the dining table at (hopefully) no later than six-thirty. Luckily, it's only four-thirty now, and I should be able to get the roast in the oven by the time I have to leave to pick up Janie and Obsidia from the school's practice fields. They really are very good.
So, as I was cutting ribbons of cheesecloth and gathering the bugs that I would use to garnish the meal, I was wondering what kind of execution I would receive later that night. Knowing the bureaucrats insistence on efficiency ( or its illusion, rather; taxpayers whatnot), and the preference for at least a modicum of spectacle, I assumed that an electric chair or firing squad would greet me in the town commons. Of course, my conservative views of death make me long for the rugged integrity of a length of rope, but these things aren't for me to decide.
I was waiting for the water to start boiling the skin off my arm when there was a knock at the front door. Why do I bother installing such a wonderful door chime if no one is going to use it? Well, anyway, I went to go see who this unexpected visitor was. I opened the door to find a frightened-looking young man in terribly nice clothes, standing on my doorstep and shaking deeply as if he'd just been pulled from an ice floe. I'd like to point out that he was perfectly dry, however, his phantom hypothermia seeming to be a result of something else, something he was hiding behind his back, perhaps. He asked me, "Begging your pardon, sir, but do you happen to have the time?"
I told him that I didn't, because I left my wristwatch in the pot with my arm, and I was real sorry about it.
He thanked me for my trouble, but, as he was about to depart I told him, in the friendliest possible manner, that it didn't bother me if he wanted to know the time, but, at this hour, the other residents of the neighborhood, who are not as friendliest as I, may take offense to their evenings being interuppted and their doors being touched.
He smiled (bless you) and thanked me for the warning, but then he inquired as to what time it was and I had to remind him that my arm was missing. He apologized and explained, grumbly,"It's just that I have to catch the right bus."
"But, young shivering boy, the buses are not on schedule this week anyway."
"What week is this?"
"It's next week already."
"What? Really? It feels like it's still this week."
"I know. It's so funny to me that you should find yourself on my stoop bringing this up, because I've had the feeling that it's been this week ALL WEEK LONG. Only it's not. It's next week."
We both had a pretty hardy laugh at this, and after I wished him well I planted further forebodings regarding our treacherous neighborhood. He seemed like he was finally calming down, but then he asked about Clara. I told him, with polite indignation, that although her widowhood would begin shortly, she was still my wife up until eight p.m. that evening, so would he please afford me the appropriate courtesy? He apologized and left carrying my remonstration behind his back.
Okay. . . side dishes. I gently skinned the potatoes and laid them along the counter so that they formed an arrow pointing at the pot of water boiling over onto the tile below. Good, then. Everything was working at falling into place, and I had just enough time to shower and dress before driving down to the practice fields. I turned on the water and lathered up my cheeks with the clean-smelling gel I had come to adore. As I shaved up and down my reddening cheeks I imagined stretching the razor out along the horizon, and exactly how many steps could be placed upon it until one's feet were completely unrecognizable to themselves? I wondered out loud if people still slipped in the shower, and no sooner did I look down than, did I?, did I find my neck broken, conveniently, between the fourth and fifth vertibrae, below, on the floor of the tub.
