Another Possible Tattoo: 'Born Lippy'

All last night there was never any doubt that this day was going to drag me into the harsh light and try to kick some words out of me, but I once again tried to convince myself that I was somehow made of sterner stuff than the average fellow. I wasn’t about to cough up any words until I was good and ready. I resolved to get right up and put something loud and bracing on the stereo (I eventually decided on Fu Manchu) to drown out the baying of the gray boys who I knew would already be milling out front and lobbing taunts and insults at my house.

A man can only avoid these confrontations, though, if he’s absolutely unwilling to move, and the instant I took a step out the front door (I was brazen enough to believe I could sneak away for a sandwich) they were on me. I can almost chuckle now as I recall my poor wife standing on the porch in a panic, screaming, “Scramble! Scramble, honey! Run! Improvise!”

I had no chance, not a chance in the world. Not today. Not Monday. They had me face down in the front lawn in no time at all, and the biggest of the bunch was kneeling in the small of my back while one of his toadies had a fistful of my hair and was yanking my head backwards from the wet grass.

“Say something!” the big one demanded.

“Say what?” I asked.

“Say anything,” he said.

I clenched my teeth and shook my head. “I have nothing to say.”

“Say, ‘How can I make this fruit look prettier?’”

“No,” I said, and even as I heard myself mutter the word I could feel my resolve eroding. Out of the corner of one eye I could see kids on their way back to school pausing to watch this spectacle from the sidewalk in front of my house.

“Say, ‘I’m so helpless I’m practically stone-aged.’”

I tried to once again shake my head, but the one goon was now yanking my hair at such an angle that it felt like he might break my neck.

“Just say it, honey,” my wife said from the porch. “Get it over with.”

I waited a long moment, breathing heavily, while the biggest of the gray boys increased the pressure on the small of my back.

“I’m so helpless I’m practically stone-aged,” I finally said.

That got a reaction out of the bastards, all right. They released me and leapt around my yard bumping chests and exchanging clumsy high-fives before piling back into their black Camaro with the smoked-glass windows. As I attempted to swipe away the mud and grass stains from my pants and jacket they tore off down the block and disappeared around the corner.

“Those fuckers,” I said.

My wife came over and patted me on the back. “It’s okay,” she said. “That wasn’t so bad this time. At least they didn’t get you to say, ‘How can I make this fruit look prettier?’”