Don’t Just Sit There, Help the Wife!
Life Lessons in a Healthy Relationship.
“Jonson, Jonson Craig!”
I am staring out the window, thinking about my next writing assignment, already in my notebook in an outline format.
“Mr. Craig, are you ready to read your assignment?” Mr. Hagen, our instructor, asks when I raise my hand.
I have recently retired, but I’m driving a school bus part-time. I was looking for something more to keep active in retirement. Learning to write in a beginner writing class seemed like an experience I could accomplish. I am almost 70 years old and have all kinds of stories to tell.
“Yes, sir, I am,” I reply, leaving my desk walking to the lectern.
I am sitting in the back of the classroom, far left, where I can see everyone and everything. As I stride to the front, I can hear the kid’s thoughts… “Who is this old guy?”, “What’s he doing here?” “This is going to be so boring.” “I have to get up in front of the whole class to do this?”
The class is full of kids less than half my age. This is a community college course, a requirement for those enrolled as Freshmen. As a senior, I can take any class as a not-for-credit enrollment.
Many years ago, in junior college, I had to take the entry-level public speaking course, Speech 101. Apprehensive at first, as most are, I found it an enjoyable experience, easier to speak in front of others than I anticipated.
I had numerous opportunities during my working career to speak to groups of strangers and fellow employees. Today I am concerned about learning writing skills, what kind of grade and feedback I will receive, and if I made the right choice enrolling. Standing here in front of everybody will be fun, especially with this story!
At the lectern, the written story in hand, I look out on the class, Mr. Hagen off to my left.
“Mr. Hagen, as I am reading the story, may I ask a question or two as part of the story; is that OK?” I ask.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, “let me get a stool.” He grabs a wooden stool, walks halfway down the center aisle between the students, places the stool in the middle, faces me, and sits down.
He continues, speaking to all of us.
“This class is your first exposure to Creative Writing. I asked you to pick a subject of interest to you, or some event experienced, and write it in the first person as I explained it to you last week. The instructions were not to worry about tense, correct punctuation, or structure, as we will get to that later. Again, now we just want to start by getting our thoughts on paper.”
Then to me, “Mr. Craig, when you are ready.”
The faces of the kids looking at me show signs of curiosity, boredom, and a general lack of interest. This writing class is a prerequisite for them; they had to be here. I’m an old retired guy… I don’t have to be anywhere. They don’t know if my story is a subject they know, something stupid, sad, funny, tedious, or just some stuff made up for the class.
I begin…
Many years ago, my wife Debbie and I, and our two toddlers, were living in a two-bedroom, one-bath apartment for a while. Nothing remarkable, nothing of note, just a plain apartment in a nondescript apartment complex. It’s a weekend, Saturday morning, and I’m sitting in the living room reading a paperback, a Western by one of my favorite authors. Deeply into the story, I did manage to look up when Debbie passed by the chair, touching my shoulder.
“I need to run out to pick up a few things,” she said. “There’s a new electric razor I’m wanting and I just saw it on sale in an ad. I won’t be gone long.”
“OK, be careful. I’ll be here if you need anything.” Eager to get back into the book, I hardly even heard the door close behind her. A short time later, the front door opened and closed. A quick “Hey, I’m going to shave my legs,” from Debbie. My mind was still far away in the dust of the outlaw trail, and I did not acknowledge her comment.
Mr. Hagen sits on the stool, giving me almost his entire attention. He is looking around the class every few minutes, seeing those who are still awake, those who are doodling, whispering… anything that might interrupt the class.
I go on…
Soon, I heard the low hum of an electric device, something one would expect from an electric razor. It all but faded from my consciousness. Now I was riding a horse, really fast!
Just several pages later, I faintly noted the abrupt stoppage of the electric razor buzz. That triggered some kind of a memory buried in my head, but I was on the dusty outlaw trail and couldn’t quickly find the memory.
By now, Mr. Hagen is smirking a little bit. He is near my age, has been around a while, and knows I am getting to the heart of the story. The girls sit up straight, paying attention. Shaving legs is something they are accustomed to, and they wonder how the story unfolds. The boys are quiet in their seats, not showing much interest, as I seem to be talking to the girls.
I continued…
Suddenly, deep, deep in the recesses of my brain, the word ‘Jon’ seemed to appear. Momentarily I noticed it, as I was at a critical part of the Western story. I thought, why did I see my name, or did I hear it? I believed it to be my imagination and continued reading.
“Jon!” it was louder this time and emphatically not my imagination. The voice sounded tearful, hurting, and in need of immediate help.
“What’s up?” I answered Debbie, not moving from my chair.
“I need your help, NOW!” she cried.
I jumped up out of the chair, careful to place the paperback on the seat so I won’t lose my place. I stepped behind the chair, turning right at the wall to walk into the bathroom. As I turned the corner, the bathroom door was open. I stopped, frozen in a step, my jaw dropped.
At this point, I hear two girls whispering, one saying, “Oh no!” as if she has some prior knowledge or experience of what had occurred. The boys are finally showing some interest.
In the bathroom, Debbie was standing at the sink, naked. One foot up on the sink edge, she held something between her legs, with an electrical cord traveling up to the wall outlet. At that moment, the memory I had briefly searched for earlier instantly found its way to the front and center of my brain.
“Mr. Hagen, boys… have you ever tried to run a lawnmower through grass too thick or wet to cut, and it just choked out?” I ask.
When I heard the abrupt stoppage of the razor, that’s what it reminded me of; that’s what my memory was trying to tell me earlier.
Mr. Hagen is on the edge of the stool, his body bent over, supporting himself with his hands on his knees, red-faced and laughing a bit. The boys are laughing, adding some crude commentary. Girls will commiserate. From them, I hear, “Ewww,” and “That’s disgusting,” several “OMGs,” and “That’s not funny.”
“No,” I say, “it’s not supposed to be funny, or sad, or happy, or anything… It’s just a story as assigned for this class.”
Then, “You’re gonna have to cut it out!” Debbie said frantically. “NOW! it’s too heavy to hold like this, and my legs are going to sleep.”
“Do what?” “Who?” “Me?” I fumbled, trying to think fast. “Cut it out with what?” I asked.
“Scissors, a knife, anything sharp, but please hurry,” she screamed at me.”
I ran into the kitchen, where I was most likely to find something. This is a small apartment; I have no tools here. There, in the drawer. “Oh no, is this all we have?” I asked quietly. “What am I going to do with these?”
What I had, all I found, was not really a pair of scissors, but more like industrial clippers. Oversize green rubber-covered handles, large rounded tips that would have trouble with soft butter, a cutting surface only in the middle of the blades. You know the “As Seen on TV” brand, the ones that cut nickels in half. Way, way more tool than I needed.
I immediately realized there would be no finesse with these cutters. I noticed a small flashlight there and grabbed it too, not knowing if there would be enough light to see where I was going.
I sprinted back to the bathroom, hiding the shears in my hands so Debbie would not see what I had to work on her. I told her the flashlight was so I didn’t cut anything that wasn’t supposed to be. Debbie was crying a bit now, whimpering urgently, “hurry, hurry!”
I knelt in front of her, flashlight between my teeth, right hand working the clippers, left hand arranging and rearranging here and there. She was supporting herself with one hand on my shoulder, the other holding the offending razor. Twenty minutes I spent down there, reassuring her constantly that I was “almost there almost there.”
Finally, “OK, let it go,” I said. I watched her death grip release the electric alien, it falling and clattering on the tile floor.
Now, I’m no barber. But under the circumstances and with overkill on the one tool available, I got the job done. “Mr. Hagen, have you ever seen a man leave a barbershop looking like he had been gouged a few times?” I ask, grinning.
Mr. Hagen is finally failing to hide his amusement, as he knew he should but could not contain himself. The boys are causing a commotion, laughing, talking trash, and wondering why the girls are not smiling or laughing or saying anything, but I wasn’t done yet. “Mr. Hagen, Mr. Hagen,” I yell above the laughter and commotion, “You ever seen a black dog with mange?”
Oh NOOO, JONSON… what have you done? I thought to myself. You just compared your wife’s hoo-hah to a black dog with an affliction. How could you do that?!! Geeeeezzzz!
The boys burst into laughter, most of them anyway. Those familiar with mange are laughing hysterically, trying to explain to those few who aren’t. Mr. Hagen is giving up. He is kneeling, one hand on the floor for support, the other clutching his chest, trying to catch his breath from uncontrolled laughter.
The girls are mostly just pissed and say so, wondering how anyone can make fun of such a situation.
“Ladies, I’m not making fun of anyone. Again, I wrote a story based on a personal experience, as indicated by the writing assignment. Something of interest to me, maybe you, or a subject where we had some knowledge or interest. Just get the words on paper. That’s what I have done, agreeable to you or not,” I explain as I try to extricate myself from my performance and my position in the front of the class.
As I start walking back to my seat, I notice one of the girls has a hand up in the air. “OK, one question,” I say. She stands up and asks, “Just what was the brand name of that electric razor your wife bought?”
I answered, telling her the name and how it worked. None of them had heard of it. Maybe it was taken off the market because of too many experiences like Debbie’s. Maybe for other reasons. “I don’t know if it’s still available in stores,” I said.
After composing himself and replacing the stool, Mr. Hagen calls to me. “That was quite a story, I’ll have to tell that to my wife tonight!”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. Just in case, you might look around your house to see if you have a small pair of sharp scissors and a bright flashlight you can grab in an emergency.”
I’m now thinking about adding a new bullet point to my résumé, under ‘Skill Set.’
