as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine
It's the same old story.
My father can't find his keys.
He's checked his room. The kitchen. The refrigerator. And he’s checked them again. Over and over. Many, many times.
"Somebody's gone into my room," he'll say.
"Nobody's gone into your room," I'll tell him.
"I know for a fact,” he’ll insist.
"How do you know?" I’ll insist back.
"I just do," he'll say, and then he'll look right at me. "I don't know who, but someone's been in my room, and that someone took my keys."
I don't know why he singles me out when he’s saying that. Does he think it's me sneaking into his room absconding with keys I already have copies of?
My father is only two places at any given time: his room or in the den watching TV. From where he sits, he can pretty much see any potential key-snatchers. Besides which, since my wife always seems to find his keys for him, why isn’t his first response to believe his keys are just misplaced, not stolen.
He's even blamed my 2-year-old grandson. He knows--KNOWS, I tell you--that the poor kid’s the culprit.
"He’s sneaky," my father will say. "Why don't you guys watch him better?"
I bristle at those kind of comments. First off, my grandson is never out of anyone's sight. Secondly, he isn't allowed in my father's room. Besides which, the logistics of him sneaking into my father’s room, stealing his keys, and then successfully making his escape... well, let's just say I'd sooner believe my father was a back-up dancer for Lady Gaga. But the main reason it's not possible is my grandson prefers robbing banks.
Did I say too much?
My father will sometimes blather on about my grandson for so long I feel obligated to defend the poor kid's honesty, but my wife will put a hand on my knee, and I'll hold my mud.
He'll think his keys have been stolen until he finds them. Then he'll shake his head, chuckle, and sheepishly admit, "Er... ahhh... they were in my pants after all."
That happens so often, I don't know why his pants aren't the first place he looks.
Right now I'm watching American Ninja Warrior on TV, admiring the skimpy costumes on the female athletes.
"Yes, dear," I agree with my wife, pretending to be disgusted. "Those costumes are way too skimpy for a world-wide audience."
I'm careful not to drool as I say this.
Basically, I'm just minding my own business when I notice my father walk into view. He's mumbling something about his keys.
He laughs and looks down, shaking his head.
"Why, that little scamp," he chuckles. "That little scamp took my keys."
"What, pop?" I ask, keeping one eye on the TV.
"What?"
"What did you say?"
"About what?"
"What did you say about the keys?"
"What keys?"
"You were saying something about your keys."
"Oh, yeah. Your grandson, he... he... ahhh, I had the keys when he grabbed them from me."
That’s when I realized what he was talking about.
"The baby took your keys?"
"He was so fast, so fast."
"You’re talking about the baby. The baby took your keys?"
"Yeah, that little rascal grabbed my keys and took off running. Man, was he fast."
Remember, my father is talking about a two-year-old.
"He's not even here,” I remind him. “How could he take them from you?"
"I don't mean now, I mean earlier."
“Earlier when?”
“Earlier earlier.”
"Why didn't you tell us then?"
"When?"
"When he took your keys?"
"What?"
I took a breathe.
"How could he take the keys from you?" I ask, almost laughing at the image of a toddler snatching keys out of a grown man's hand, and then giving the old geezer a noogie for good measure. “He’s only two.”
"What?"
"How could he take the keys from you?" I ask him again.
"I don't know how he took the keys from me, he just did. And he was fast."
"What was he even doing in your room?"
"I don't know what he was doing in my room, he just was. And now, who knows what he’s done with them. Probably lost them."
It's not that I don't believe my father when he says my grandson was able to snatch a pebble out of his hand like Kwai Chang Kane did to Master Po in the classic TV show Kung Fu. It's just that I don't believe a toddler could snatch anything out of a grown man's hand, even if that grown man is 93-years-old. I don't know what happened, but that particular scenario seems pretty far fetched.
I was going to ask him that, if my grandson snatched the keys from him, why didn't he just snatch them right back. Or how he was able to get into his room in the first place. Or how he was able to get away. Or why didn't he just tell us about it when it happened. Or... or... or...
Please, if my grandson had been in my father’s room we would have heard about it pdq. He gets nervous around that little whirling dervish, you see. He’s afraid of being knocked over and breaking his hip. Whenever my grandson’s around, my father attaches himself to the nearest secured object, and calls for help. There are dozens of things that make my father nervous--none of which I'll bore you with right now--and my grandson is first on that list. What it comes down to is this:
My grandson is too young to defend himself, and my father is too old to be interrogated.
Anyone know how to do a waterboard interrogation?
Let me know at theduchenebrothers@gmail.com.
American Chimpanzee
JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com
RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com
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