Houseguests. We've all had them. Friends, relatives, in-laws, friends of friends, friends of relatives, and yes . . . even relatives of relatives. Sometimes we have a momentary departure from sanity and actually invite them. But in most cases they usually invite themselves.
The 7 a.m. Saturday morning phone call usually goes something like this: "Hey, [insert your name here] this is Larry, how you doin'? Gosh, it's been a long time. Marge and I were sitting out on the porch last Friday night talking about all those great times that the four of us always had back in high school. [There it is... the "hook."] And then we got to thinkin' how great it would be to see you guys again. You know, sit around, drink a few beers, talk about old times."
By now your mind is racing. Who the hell is this "Larry" anyway? You think back over the years and try to remember all of the Larrys in your life, and all that comes to mind is some lowlife Larry who sold you that bogus life-insurance policy that you faithfully and blindly paid the premiums on for 20 years before you realized that the company went bankrupt 20 years ago. Roughly two weeks after he signed you up. So far, the lawyer fees are almost twice what your potential reward will be from the class-action lawsuit.
As your Pepcid kicks in and you swallow that last bitter dribble of reflux, the buzzing in your ears eases and you focus just long enough to hear your long-lost high school friend "Larry" say, "... so anyway, Marge and I and the kids just happen to be coming through town on spring break--say, how far do you live from the World's Biggest Ball of Twine, anyway?--and we thought we'd stop in."
You blurt out something stupid like "Ya ... but ..." and Larry, sounding more like the insurance guy Larry than the unremembered high school Larry, seizes the moment at your three-millisecond pause that betrays your uncertainty and booms, "Great! We can't wait to see you guys! And don't worry about the boys! They can sleep on the floor with our Dobermans--Heidi and Helga. The girls can sleep in 'our' room with us. If we don't separate them, they just fight all night. You know how six teenagers can be. Oh ... and don't worry about directions. Marge found your wife's name and address on Facebook, and we have you guys already programmed in the van's GPS. See you Wednesday, old buddy."
Your wife wakes up and stumbles out from the bedroom to your shouts and curses and all the racket your hammer makes as you reduce her laptop, iPad, iPhone, and her home office computer to plastic shards while cursing Facebook with expletives that have amazing assonance with Facebook. When you tell her what has just happened, she rips the hammer from your trembling hands, tells you to go chew another couple of Pepcids, and finishes the job, cussing louder than your neighbor does at his lawnmower. Unlike you, however, she actually remembers Larry and Marge. But, like you, is unable to control herself.
The dreaded day finally arrives. You check to be sure that the boards are nailed inside the front door and that the padlock and chain that you welded to the garage door are secure.
As you cower behind the blue Wal-Mart tarp you draped over the front window, straining to see through a small rip that you cut just for this purpose, you feel yourself tremble as the white eight-seat rented delivery van rolls into the driveway. Is that a plywood shipping crate tied to the top? Small holes drilled everywhere? Almost forgot--Heidi and Helga!
The van rocks to a stop. Steam and smoke roll out from under the hood. The driver's door opens with his third shoulder-shove. You see him. Larry. Then you remember. That Larry! The Larry that was voted "Most Likely To Fail In Life At Whatever The Heck He Chooses." He stands patiently by the open driver's door, sucking on a Marlboro, incessantly honking the delivery van's dual-tone industrial-strength horns shouting "insert your name here."
You rattle the plastic bottle in your back pocket. Two more Pepcids left. You toss them in your mouth and pry the Luger from your wife's clenched hand as she takes her turn looking through the rip. She has it pointed directly at Marge's sagging kneecaps bulging under her plaid Bermuda shorts. Seems that her memories about the girl's locker-room prank (which, as you recall, somehow involved a training bra) just won't go away.
You huddle close, daring to take your finger and rip the hole a little bigger so you can peer out together. Cheek-to-sweaty-cheek, you shudder as you watch Larry point to the front door and yell something at his twin six-foot, pimple-faced, size-15 Nike-shod sons. Obediently, they rush your front door and you hear the clawing and kicking challenging your carpentry skills. Mercifully it doesn't budge. You say a prayer of thanksgiving for the guy in Home Depot who recommended 16-penny nails.
Then you hear it. A doorknob turning somewhere. The back door! You forgot the back door.
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Bill Rausch is a freelance writer from Little Rock. Email him at williamrausch25@yahoo.com.
Editorial on 03/26/2016