The Event 2
Continued from last week.
If I had entered the CIA I would be prepared for rooting through garbage, conducting what amounted to domestic espionage on college age young men. And this one, like most twenty-something men, wasn't particularly covert. In fact, this is probably the reason I never considered, or was considered for the CIA when I was in college. I was not particularly... covert or of a covert mind.
Thankfully, this made him very prone to slip-ups, and not too terribly difficult to follow. Of course, difficulty is a relative thing, and I must have been thinking like a CIA man, because I don't think, sitting at home, watching a Pats game, or raking leaves, or pottering around the kitchen, I would ever think of digging through garbage as "not too terribly difficult." My wife would probably argue that doing anything with the trash would be considered quite difficult, indeed, on the scale of things.
He showed up in our living room in the middle of the game, as I've said. He, well, she, our beautiful daughter, told us about how they'd met (in a bar over on the lower East Side), how they'd spent a lot of time together (not entirely sure they told us how they spent it, but then I don't want to know, whatever it is), how they'd realized they fulfilled some need for the other, and that they were planning on getting married. Well, it was a perfectly good way to ruin a football game.
I don't mean to sound callous. Or... disappointed. I'm sure, long ago, it would have been the most thrilling news a parent could get: their daughter was getting married! No, wait. The dowry thing worked the other way. So, actually, I was probably about as pleased as a farmer in 17th century rural New England would be, if for slightly different reasons.
It hit me later, of course. At the time, I grinned, shook his hands, and not much more thought was put to it. Clever gambit by my daughter, who was the queen of covert ops. The CIA would do well to hire her after college. She figured she'd hit me with it during the game and she'd be home and free, on that Fung Wah bus back to the City before I realized what I'd been told and the Fifth Quarter was over.
Well, that's how it went.
To be continued...
disclaimer:
Note, when I said that the editor is a baby, I did not mean that he was, in actual fact, a baby. He is nearly fully grown (physically, if not mentally and emotionally)
Still, go pick up Further Fenway Fiction from your local bookshop. Just go, go on... we're #648,172 on the Amazon.com list. Id be very keen if we were more like... 648, 043... c'mon... bump us up there... buy a couple copies, if need be. Please?
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