Saturday, April 12, 2008

Squirt gun

So I take John to the first Rock and Romp of the season. It's a pretty afternoon, the bands are decent, I'm having a beer, John is running around and chasing girls. Life is good, right?

[Digression: the crowd never fails to tickle me. Five years ago all of these people were stinking drunk at the Hi Tone every weekend. They all know each other, and having spent some time in Memphis bars a few years before that they all kind of look vaguely familiar with me. I get a lot of the "who is that guy" look. It's cool. I like being the mystery man.]

The people who organized the thing had put out a box of toys, too - mainly noisemakers and waterguns. I dutifully filled John's gun up and sent him on his way.

I knew there would be trouble when I had to run him off from a none-to-happy looking couple he was squirting.

"No," I told him, "just squirt kids. No grown-ups."

A little while later I hear the woman behind me say "no. I don't want to be squirted at all."

"I was just going to water the grass around you," John says in his I'm-a-charming-kid voice.

"Okay then. Bye," the woman says.

[And I wanted to say "no one dismisses my kid but me, you twat. You should get down on your face and thank my son for even thinking about squirting you." However, I did not.]

Then I see John squirting a group of three or four boys. All bigger than him. [My son is fearless.] I look back a few minutes later and see the biggest kid - easily twice as big as John - swinging John around while John tenaciously clings to the watergun. The kid asks John something. John points to me and wanders off.

The big kid comes up to me - his smaller followers in tow - and asks me if John is my son. I tell him yes.

"Would you please make him stop squirting us, we've asked him to stop," he said.

"He squirted me in my ear!" one of the followers wailed.

"I'll take care of it," I said.

[And thought, "you little pussies. Especially you, big kid! You should have pushed him down and stomped the gun!"]

John didn't like that he'd been tattled on. I told him not to squirt people who didn't want to be squirted - a lesson we can all use in many facets of our lives - but I didn't fuss at him.

"These delicate midtown kids," I told him, "they just don't know how to handle a New Orleans-born, Arkansas-raised kid like you, John. You have to be careful with them. They're not as tough as you."


Post a Comment

<< Home