Story 73: The Perfect Excuse

            I had reached the point where I had had it with everything: my job was abysmal; I kept having to go to events I hated; and conversation in general drained my soul out through my ears.  The time had come to create the perfect excuse to get out of everything.  So I invented a baby.

            Faking a pregnancy is easy when you’re single (at least in this modern world) – I would never have gotten away with it if I was living with the imaginary father (I’m just not that devious).  It was a nice attention-booster at work and a great way to get out of doing pretty much anything: the bigger my fake stomach grew, the more I could just put my feet up and nap.  I even got to go home a lot of times with intense back pain, which wasn’t entirely a lie (fake stomachs have real weight, my friends).  Morning sickness let me come in late a lot, too, and Braxton Hicks nicely took care of the rest of the day quite often (got out of some literally painful meetings with that one – false labor’s a life-saver, let me tell you).  The girls were sweet and tried to throw me a baby shower, but I headed them off at the pass on that one by saying “Please don't fuss” and having them just write me one big check (what am I going to do with a crib and sundry baby paraphernalia?).  I did the same with my family, only some of my first-degree relatives insisted on giving me strollers – whatever floats their boat.

            When the “baby” arrived after 9 ½ months of stretching out the term (I refused to take maternity leave before delivery because I’m that much of a trooper), I dropped off the radar for a while to “nest” in Paris, insisting upon on my privacy while simultaneously hinting that the “child’s” “father” quite possibly was some world leader who needed to buy my silence to avoid disastrous scandal.  Labor lasted for five weeks as I toured Western Europe (definitely do not go there in August, nothing’s open).

            I finally returned home and was ready to re-introduce myself to society as a new mother whose baby no one ever saw.  I found an old baby picture of me that I used the wonders of modern technology to make it appear as if it had just been taken the other day.  Ate up many an hour in the office showing that off.

            Social gatherings became a bit of an issue: everyone kept wanting to see their new cousin/niece/granddaughter, so much so I had to inflict an impossible amount of colds upon the poor thing to explain her continual absence.  Thankfully, after a seemly amount of time I could invent a babysitter.  The whole enterprise finally paid off at those interminable gatherings where people just don’t. Stop. Talking.  One simple sentence would save me: “Gotta go – the baby.”  It wasn’t even a proper sentence, but it worked every time.

            “The baby” – what a wonderful phrase.  “I’d love to go to the wake, but, you know, the baby.”  “Can’t stay overtime anymore, boss – the baby.”  “Cousin’s in the hospital again?  Of course I’d visit, if it weren’t for THE BABY.”  “Dance recital?  Yeah, the baby.”  I can milk this for years.

            Don’t know what I’ll do when she’s a teenager, though.  Maybe I’ll decide to have another one by then.

Story 72: Dilation of the Senses

            “I’m going to put the drops in your eyes now,” the ophthalmologist said.  “I’ll be back in a few minutes when they’re fully dilated.”

            The patient leaned back in the exam chair, waiting for the familiar pressure as his corneas would be forced wide open against their will.  Surprisingly, this time he did not feel that, but the room still became suspiciously brighter with each passing minute.

            When the ophthalmologist returned, the patient asked: “Are these new drops?  I think they’re working, but they don’t feel like they normally do.”

            “Why, yes, actually they’re from a – whoa!”  The ophthalmologist saw the patient’s eyes for the first time since re-entering the room.

            “What?”

            “It’s, just, your eyes are really ready for me to look at now,” she said.  His eyes had been green on his arrival for the appointment, but the green had been reduced to a faint memory of itself as it was literally eclipsed by the gaping chasms that were his pupils.  “Don’t look directly into the light.”

            She finished the exam and sent him on his way with: “Make sure you wear sunglasses when you go outside!”

            “Heh, I think I need them in here!”

            THREE DAYS LATER

            “Doctor, a patient’s on the phone with a question – he says his pupils are still dilated from the other day?  Does that sound right?”

            “Oh.  I’ll take it in my office.”  The ophthalmologist closed the door and picked up the line.  “This is the doctor.”

            “Doc, you gotta help me, my eyes are still dilated!”

            “Has there been any change?”

            “None that I can see, and I can see everything now!  People at work think I’m too cool for school `cause I can’t use the computer without sunglasses, and I keep getting pulled over for erratic driving `cause it’s so bright, and the cops think I’m on drugs!”

            “Oh no, you haven’t been arrested, have you?”

            “I have!  They recommended I call you after the second time.”

            “Yes, come right in.”

            He came in an hour later, wearing the type of sunglasses usually given to people who have had cataract surgery.  “I got pulled over again!”

            “Right this way, please.”  She led him to an exam room with the lights turned down low; he took off the sunglasses and pressed his fists against his eyes.  “Let me see.”  He lowered his hands and opened his eyes: there had been no change.  When she shone a soft light at the pupils, she could have sworn that she could see both the outside and the inside of the corneas at the same time.

            She decided to give it to him straight: “After you left the other day, I saw that the drops I had given you were from a sample pack that had been sent to me in error.  Other than the brightness, have you seen anything else unusual?  Colors you never noticed before?”

            “Yes, actually I now see a weird red wherever there’s heat, and a lot of a weird purple in the light.”

            “Mm-hm.  Yes, it seems the drops have given you super-vision, where you now can see all the colors in the spectrum, including infrared and ultraviolet, and who knows what else.  There’s no way to reverse it without killing you, so I contacted the NSA where the package had come from and they’re recruiting you for their research and surveillance divisions.”

            “Wha – ?”

            The door opened and two men in suits and shades entered.

            “Come with us to your new life, sir.”  Each grabbed an arm and hauled him out of the exam chair.

            “But – but – but I’m a paralegal!”  The door shut gently behind them.

            That’s the last time I use something without first reading the package it came in, the ophthalmologist thought as she went to the next exam room for her 1:15.  Lesson learned.

Story 71: Snow Shoveling Extortionists

(A shot of a cookie-cutter development)

Documentary Host: (Voiceover) There is a shadow cast over this ordinary-looking neighborhood.   Whenever it snows, all tremble in fear as they await the dreaded moment when their home is targeted by: THE SNOW SHOVELING EXTORTIONISTS.

(A shot of two men in their 20s, swaggering down the street carrying shovels over their shoulders)

Homeowner 1: (Sitting in a living room chair) I go to sleep at night, it’s snowing out, a white blanket everywhere, beautiful.  I wake up the next day, and the driveway has been shoveled.  And these two guys are standing there expecting me to pay them for clearing it.

Host: (Off-screen) And had you asked them to shovel it?

Homeowner 1: No sir, I had not.  It was shoveled without my knowledge or consent.

(On a street corner)

Shoveler 1: I don’t understand; we are providing these folks a service –

Shoveler 2: A valuable service.

Shoveler 1: And all we’re asking for is appropriate compensation.  That’s ingratitude for you.

Shoveler 2: I mean, we are entrepreneurs; this is the American way.  You do work, you get paid for it – that’s the definition of capitalism right there.

Shoveler 1: Sure, do people hire us to do this?  No.  We used to do the “courteous” thing and go door-to-door asking people if they needed their driveways shoveled – they clearly did –

Shoveler 2: Clearly.

Shoveler 1: And we kept getting told “No thank you”, “We’re going to shovel it right now”, “I’ve already got a guy who does it”, and “Get off my property!”  Well, guess what?  A driveway is eminent domain!

Shoveler 2: Eminent domain!

Shoveler 1: You can’t trespass on public property!

Shoveler 2: Is a driveway eminent domain?

Shoveler 1: The point is, people should be thanking us for saving them the trouble of shoveling two feet of snow over 20 feet of driveway.  Especially this neighborhood: there’re a lot of old people here, ambulances are always coming by for somebody.

Shoveler 2: Every five hours.

Shoveler 1: You know, they shouldn’t be mad at us for shoveling their driveways – they should be mad at their grandkids for not shoveling Mee-Maw and Pop-Pop’s driveway!

Shoveler 2: Hold on, maybe they can’t get over here `cause they’re snowed in, too.

Shoveler 1: That’s an excellent point – we should offer our services to them as well.  Whole new market.  When we’re ready to expand, of course.

(In a kitchen)

Homeowner 2: Well, they did shovel out our driveway, it’s not as if they’re asking for money for doing nothing.

Homeowner 3: (In the background) I’ll shovel my own driveway!

Homeowner 2: Of course, dear.  (Sips coffee while raising eyebrows)

(In front of a house at 2:00 a.m.)

Shoveler 1: On a good night, with light snow and such, we can get about 10, 20 houses done.  When there’s ice, though, that cuts our progress at least in half.

Shoveler 2: (Shoveling in the background) I hate ice!

Shoveler 1: Gotta watch out for the plows, too, they ruin the end of the driveways; we usually have to redo those a few times.

Host: (Off-screen) And then you go to each house when the sun rises to collect payment?

Shoveler 1: Oh yeah, we have a formula and everything.  (Pulls out a piece of paper) Square footage of driveway times volume of snow removed plus any reshoveling, minus any sections covered by parked cars.

Shoveler 2: We’re honest – we don’t take credit for snow we didn’t shovel.  We will charge extra for clearing off your cars, so that makes up for it.

Shoveler 1: Yeah, the last part is plus snow brushed off cars then shoveled off the driveway.  It’s a good formula.

Host: Have you ever considered using a snow blower?

Shoveler 1: Nah, we’re old school.  Plus it would wake up everybody.

(Lights turn on inside the house and the shovelers beat a hasty retreat)

Host: (Facing the camera) As if these businessmen were not enough, the neighborhood was then afflicted with their competition.

(Five 8-year-old girls carrying shovels go door-to-door)

Homeowner 4: (Opens the door to see the girls standing there and the driveway having been barely shoveled) Aren’t you the sweetest things!  (Gives each of them money) Come inside and have some hot chocolate!

Girls: Thank you, ma’am!

(Shovelers 1 and 2 are staring in disbelief from the street)

Shoveler 1: That’s low, man.

Shoveler 2: You can’t come into our territory and play dirty like that!

Shoveler 1: I’ve got an idea.

(Homeowner 5 opens the door to see Shovelers 1 and 2, crouching to appear shorter and wearing blonde pig-tail wigs)

Shoveler 1: (Speaking in a high-pitched voice) Hi, sir, we’d like to shovel your driveway – (Is punched in the face)

(On a street corner, Shovelers 1 and 2 are standing, slumped; Shoveler 1 is holding a snowball against his bruised cheek)

Shoveler 1: I think we’ve gotten all we can out of this neighborhood.

Shoveler 2: Bled dry.

Shoveler 1: I do like the prospects better across the highway: circular drives.

Shoveler 2: Ooh.

Shoveler 1: And houses at the tops and bottoms of hills.  Don’t know why you’d want your house where all the water collects or set that far back from the street, but the bottom line is, those driveways are long.

Shoveler 2: At least a mile.

Host: (Off-screen) And what will you do in the spring, summer, and fall when there is no snow?

Shovelers 1 and 2: Landscaping!  (They high-five each other)

Host: (Faces the camera) There you have it: a perfect example of free enterprise played out before our eyes, with homeowners living in fear of whom will be targeted next.  Thank you for watching, and keep an eye on your property.