A Habit

I sit around and think of horrible things to say to people. Don't look at me like that; you do it too. The only difference between us is that it is customary for me to immediately telephone Randy and blurt out what I've thought up.

The reason I do this is because, fortunately, Randy is often surrounded by laughing, peaceful Christian children when it happens, and the disparity between his surroundings and what I've just said is so shocking to him that I can hear— actually hear— his brain lock up and start misfiring. Randy is quick on his feet, but he can't shift gears that fast. I did this a lot on the road.

Just now, I thought up something so unspeakable, so wrong, and yet so unassailably true, that I found that I could not dial fast enough. The phone rang. It rang. Then he picked up.

"Hello?"

And for a wonder, I paused.

"Randy?"

"Uh, no. He's in class right now."

"Oh," I said. "Okay. Thanks!"

"You're welcome."

"Bye!"

"Bye."

A moment of prudence, and disaster is side-stepped. I do not believe in omens. One can always hope.

Happy Election Day, Randy, you cynical weasel.