I was reading Cosmo the other day, I have a subscription, (it was a
gift I swear) and found the "what is the most spontaneous thing you've
done" column, where they ask a whole bunch or girls the same question.
Which got me thinking, my whole life has been one chain of spontaneous
acts, and I wonder if there are people out there who actually have to
think hard about their last spontaneous act, and who are these people
and are they happy? Which brings me to one of my favorites.
Manwife was on vacation. Manwife's life is pretty much one big
vacation, with kid. But Manwife was on vacation because the wife had
agreed to watch Kilgore Jr. for the weekend. Meaning: skatetrip
The open road, my friend Frank is driving, my other friend Kurtis is
ridding shotgun, I'm sleeping in the back seat of the truck. I sense
the truck pulling to a stop and wake up, crazed, drool dried on my
chin, "Ahhhh, what you guys doing, I have a Petro card, you have to
stop at Petro Canada."
"Relax, we're stopping for ice cream." And so we are. Ten minutes
later we are back in my truck, cruising down the highway to some good
music, Frank driving, Kurt in the back, I've got shotgun. Recently my
brother, fresh from a trip to the U.S, had given me a cigar box full of
firecrackers. I'm hell on wheels with firecrackers. At that moment,
Frank driving, us eating our ice cream cones, the glovebox of the truck
contained a handful of the these firecrackers, the good ones, M-80s. As
we were sailing down the highway and I was licking away at my extra
tall soft ice cream I was overcome by an urge. I didn't resist at all,
just gave in. Calmly opened the glove box, removed an M-80, pushed it
into the tower of soft ice cream, lit the wick and held it between the
two front seats for us all to marvel at. Time froze, we all stared
dumbly at the wick burning down. Our minds blank.
BOOM.
Instantly all the windows are covered and running with the white
stuff, the ceiling, our faces. I look over to see Frank wiping his face
with his shirt, Frank is a picky Italian, he likes his clothes clean
and stylish, this can't sit well. In the back Kurtis is wiping his
glasses, also with his shirt. Aside from the music and the ringing in
our ears the truck is silent, no one speaks. I figure they are pissed.
The vehicle must look suspect from the outside, Frank has to wipe away
at the windshield in front of him to see the road. About ten minutes in
Kurtis speaks up. "That has got to be the dumbest thing you've ever
done." That's it, the laugher comes rolling out of me in great waves
for the next four hours. On and off, always until I'm crying, then I'm
good for a while, until I think about Kurtis cleaning his glasses or
when I see the looks we get when we pass people. "Yeah yeah," my
friends respond, "why don't we go take a ride in the Bel so we can pop
a couple of caps" referring to my 64 Chev Bel Air, my classic car. This
threat of popping caps in the Bel persist to this day.
Manwife - Part 2