The Late Arrival

My uncle was the best storyteller. He’d regale us with Sunday Dinner Stories of his Mama Sara and growing up in Tennessee. Sometimes, it’d just be pure fictional silliness, like the time his frenemy “Blue” had enough of his teasing and bashed his head in with a brick. He was a master of hyperbole and comedy. Somehow, we all ended up in stitches over his stitches. Other times, my great aunt, a Jehovah’s Witness, would join us after a Kingdom Hall Sunday meeting. Inevitably the doorbell would ring with Jehovah’s Witnesses witnessing. On my way to answering the door, I’d tell my mom “It’s Jehovah’s Witnesses” and just as I’d open the door, my mom would yell “Tell ‘em we got one already!” I’d die a slow embarrassing death looking into the innocent eyes of the witnesses while everyone at the table laughed. Including my great aunt. After dinner, we’d end up in the living room around the upright Mason piano adorned with our baby pictures and miscellaneous sheet music. My uncle plunked ou...

When I walked into the ladies room, I was greeted by oatmeal pasty thighs and blue veiny hands hitching up once-upon-a-time-white grandmaw panties. They were attached to a woman who didn't seem to care that the open stall door left her exposed to me. I was rolling into work an hour early, half awake, half bitter and in dire need of another ninety minutes of sleep. Maybe the potty training phase of my now 12 y/o girl is what left me unfazed: for about four months of my adult life, all I saw was panties, hineys and assorted potty poses; so I went on primping, preening and pretending that I was up for the song and dance act required for presenting my report at the monthly board meeting. Once she had everything hitched, gathered up and zipped up, she exited the open stall and approached. Excuse me, I know a lot of people don’t smoke anymore… I listened to her pitch and noticed her acid-etched face wasn't too many years younger than mine, and her eyes were bright-white-blu...