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Tuesday, June 14, 2011

If The Ship Is Going Down

*** continued from previous post - sorry for the delay folks, this damn prostate cancer keeps crimping my style ***


I pushed on, "Please to meet you," I said, pivoting my head, nodding, and making eye contact with each member of the group. Your mother did the same, but I noticed a slight catch of nerves in her voice. The family returned the nod, reluctantly I thought, and after a couple of minutes we realized this was the most we were going to get out of them. There they sat, studying us, casting sidelong glances at each other.

Well, what a fine morning this was shaping into. Hostile Canadians surrounding me on three sides. Hostile tiny woman to my right. Nature's glory over my shoulder. Flop sweat forming on my shiny, shiny bald head, and I hadn't even had my first cup of coffee.

Mark cast a quick glance to his family. Evidently there was some bizarre telepathic connection between the lot of them. Children of the Corn comes to mind. Or the Albertan equivalent. What would the Albertan equivalent be? I would have to ponder that at a later time. Something cold and flat no doubt.

"So," Mark said, but it came out as an accusation which I actually had to admire. It's hard to pack so much emotion into two letters without the aid of weaponry. "You're the ones with the motorcycle. And from THE STATES!"

He then rocked back in his chair, folding his arms once again across his chest. Not a question, just a statement. A statement tinged with contempt and accusations and devilry.

Ah . . . now I get it. We were evil! I actually felt your mom scoot her chair out from the table, preparing to bolt. I put a hand on her knee, and held her in her seat. She wasn't going anywhere. If the ship was going to sink, we were going down together. My mind raced. Was there any possibility of salvaging this moment? More importantly, did I want to salvage the moment? Hmmmm . . . it might be fun to adopt a scorched-earth approach. I could insult the Queen. I could declare my complete contempt for all things cheesy. I could tell them that, as a profession, I raped babies but had a side job as a litterbug. So many options . . .

*** the journey continues ***

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