Those from summer 2005 may remember little cousin Shay, the stubborn, smelly-footed 12- year- old, whom I kidnapped (with the permission of his mother, cousin Elizabeth, of course) and dragged up the East Coast and into Canada. I took him to three Major League Baseball games, a roller-coaster park, and Niagara Falls, among other places, and still he held firm that I had ruined his life. When he wasn't in arm's reach, he was brave enough to name me "The Devil" (which I'm not- so- secretly proud of, I must say). Now a petulant, if somewhat hulking, 14, Shay had thought it safe to deride me when I was finally across an ocean. Literary criticism knows no blood ties (as Pop more than illustrates...).
Last night when I arrived at Cousin Elizabeth's from the airport, too tired to attempt to drive up to Columbia from Charleston, I expressed to the beleaguered cousin Elizabeth my intention to "annihilate [him] a little" to return the natural order of things. He and his older brother were well asleep at this point and had no idea I was there. Poor, sweet, ever suffering Elizabeth, ever striving for just a moment's peace as the single mother of two teenagers, expressly forbade me from thrashing the boy (well, I was probably just going to hogtie him or give him a swirlie, to be honest). Reluctantly, I submitted, thoroughly convinced she had forgotten what a good time was unless it bit her in the
I held to my word. Really, I did. I didn't touch the boy. But when I coincidentally woke up ten minutes before he was supposed to, to get a cup of water, I decided that I would just scare the living hell out of him. Quietly, I tip toed into his room. The bear-like family dog gave me a once over and fell back asleep on the floor next to his bed. Great watchdog. I got in position next to his bed, arms out, hands gripped into claws, whatever muscles I could manage flexed, and...waited. There in the pitch-black, I stood in my tidy-whities trying not to laugh at the silliness of the whole thing. Still, I know (from experience, sadly...) that waking up and seeing me first thing qualifies as absolute terror on normal people's scale of such matters.
His mother came into the room to wake him up; she didn't bat an eye but simply told me to get the hell out. I told her that I wasn't going to touch him, as per our arrangement, but just the act of standing there in the dark was damn funny; it would be even funnier when he woke up, groggily looked up, and soiled himself. Finally, she had the good sense to agree with me, always the proper course of action, and left me to my hijinks. The boy slept through our exchange because a nuclear bomb hadn't been detonated.
Problem was that the not-so-little cretin hadn't set his alarm the night before. I was willing to go the extra mile for my art (of being a pain in the tookus) but this wouldn't stand. I pressed the radio button to speed things up and, lightening quick, got back in my hunched, terrorizing pose. Shay, thoroughly annoyed at his alarm for inconveniencing his beauty sleep, rolled over and went for the clock. As we made eye contact, I roared, my morning breath no doubt adding another frightening dimension to the whole ordeal. The sloth thrust himself back with a gasp and a speed I've never seen before and nearly went through the drywall. I howled with laughter. His mother laughed in the kitchen. He claimed, rather angrily, "You know you're not funny, right?"
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