La historia me absolvió

Most folks are unclear as to the origins of their politics of personal traits.  Not I.  Both were finely distilled before the third grade.

I cannot faithfully recall which early grade school teacher it was, since I was in love with them more or less equally.  In any case, we were charged with our first narrative writing exercise.  The prompt-- the engine of my demise-- appeared harmless enough: “My Father’s Job.”

Now I did have a vague understanding of my old man’s occupation.  He bludgeoned the hell out of cars every day at a body and fender shop, his weapon of choice a mythical implement known as the BFH No. 5.  Acceptable fodder for my assignment, to be sure.  But for reasons I can only guess at now, I was silent about my father’s true vocation.  The Ballad of BFH No. 5 went unsung that day.

Instead, the page I turned in (at the height of the Vietnam War, mind you) described my father as a colonel in the Cuban Army.  His valor had apparently been tested in some fairly recent unpleasantness.  Adding a somewhat perplexing verisimilitude to my account were illustrations of his heroic exploits, complete with an accurate rendering of the Cuban flag.

I incredulously turned in this tissue of lies, probably addled by marker fumes and the pangs of love for whichever teacher I had.  She responded with characteristic warmth and praise to my “creativity.”  Indeed, she was so taken with my work that she decided to send it home with me.

I hadn’t thought of that.

I walked home with the trepidation of a televangelist in a lightning storm.  Despite an apparent knack for grand fabrication, I lacked the common sense of a criminal who has been given the proof of his offense.

At home I left the assignment on the kitchen table, just an innocent sheet of largish newsprint strafed by alternating dashes and solid lines.  But between those lines lay the evidence that I had lied.

At 5.30 on the dot my dad’s motorcycle roared into the garage, and I found myself trapped in the living room.  There was nowhere to run.  I closed my eyes, heard the trapdoor snap open, felt the noose pull taut.

Minutes passed in seeming antediluvian time.  Then my father walked in from the kitchen, his eyebrow arched as he scanned the paper in his hand.  Stopping to pronounce his judgment, his gaze shifted toward me and he seemed to smile.

“Nice story, John.  It’s pretty good.  Show it to your mom when she gets home.”

Years later, I find myself an ardent socialist and largely immune to direction.  Mayhaps I would be a successful CPA now had I been properly sanctioned for such rank eccentricity.  But the world has plenty of CPAs, and I’ve got a catapult to put together.  Peace.