vituperation

I positioned the pillow in my lap for Tom Cullen and settled back into the couch, ready to return to the world of Randall Flagg, Mother Abagail, and the three men in Las Vegas who were there to make a stand. I’ve been working my way through the almost-1200 pages of King’s opus for what feels like forever, and I’m finally nearing the end. Ironically, all this apocalyptic reading has me craving another monster, Robert McCammon’s Swan Song.

“Fred?” the spud called from the top of the stairs.

“Yeah?”

“Mom needs you.”

I sighed and laid the book down beside me. Lifting the pillow carefully, I deposited it and the madly purring Tom Cullen on the floor. I plodded through the kitchen and into the foyer, wondering what sort of important thing required my presence. Based on past experiences, I suspected it would be something like getting something off the top shelf in the bathroom closet.

“I think she’s dying or something,” the spud said, calm as always, when she saw me at the bottom of the stairs. I picked up my pace.

I found Robyn in the bedroom, lying on the bed. Abnormally.

She lay on her stomach across the headboard end of the bed, her face pressed into the small space between the massive piece of wood and the mattress. Her legs, scissoring in the air, hung over the edge of the bed. Neither arm was visible. Miz Poo paced back and forth near her, staring intently at her and meowing nervously.

Oh crap, I thought. One of the cats brought something in and it’s trapped under the bed.

“Bessie, what’s up?” I asked.

“Mph unf ick hnuck!” she said, and flailed her legs for emphasis.

Miz Poo chirped.

“What?”

She twisted her head around so her mouth was aimed up, instead of into the mattress.

“My arm is stuck!” she said.

A lesser man might have laughed in such a situation. I, however, am not a lesser man.

I cackled.

“I need the camera!” I crowed. “HEY SPUD!”

“DON’T YOU DARE!”

“What happened?” the spud asked from behind me.

“Your mom got her arm stuck in the bed,” I wheezed. “Go get the camera.”

“NO!” Robyn screamed. She wiggled a bit to convey her displeasure at the thought of being photographed, but not much. Her position wouldn’t allow it, what with one arm wedged under her and the other trapped in the bed. Miz Poo ran over and meowed in her face. Displays of strong emotion seem to really get her in a state. Robyn shook her head at the cat, annoyed. “Miz Poo, get back!”

Miz Poo did not get back.

“Should I get the camera?” the spud asked.

“Help me!” Robyn cried.

I was torn. Here was a perfect opportunity to take a picture of my wife, her arm stuck in the space between the mattress and the headboard like the monkey’s when he reached into the cookie jar and found he couldn’t get his hand out. A picture showing her stubby little legs kicking madly as she struggled. A picture I could put online with an entry so the whole world could laugh with me.

I sighed.

“No,” I said to the spud. “Don’t get the camera.”

I walked to the head of the bed and positioned myself behind Robyn in a way that also would have made for a funny picture. I slipped my fingers into the space between cloth and wood and pulled.

Nothing. I had no leverage. I considered the situation.

“This isn’t very comfortable,” Robyn said.

I turned to the spud, who stood in the doorway laughing.

“Come get on the other side of the bed,” I said.

She did so.

“Reach up under the comforter and everything and feel for a strap on the side of the mattress.”

Children walk a fine line through the years where their age ends in the word “teen”. On one side of this line is normalcy, where there is intelligence, learning, and mental growth. The time when they’re becoming adults, ready to become contributing members of society and to do their part in evolving our species just the tiniest bit further.

And then there’s the other side. The dumbass side, which the spud apparently crossed over into when she walked across the room.

“I don’t see a strap,” she said.

“I know you don’t see a strap, because it’s under the comforter and everything. On the mattress.”

She bent and lifted the comforter.

“I still don’t see a strap.”

“This is starting to hurt,” Robyn said.

“YOU DON’T SEE A STRAP BECAUSE IT’S ON THE MATTRESS,” I said. “UNDER THE SHEET. UNDER THE FITTED SHEET. UNDER THE MATTRESS COVER. ON. THE. MATTRESS.”

“Under the sheet?” the spud asked.

With a grunt of frustration, I gave my side of the mattress a mighty heave and it slid several inches down the bed. Robyn rolled away from the end of the bed rubbing her arm, a rueful grin on her face.

“You know what makes this so sad?” she asked. “This is the second time I’ve done that.”