Scoping It Out
by Eric Miller
After dragging
my sorry bare assets uptown for a colonoscopy,
the only magazine I could find to read in the
waiting room was apparently printed by Johannes
Gutenberg, based on its date. Then I received a
call on my cell phone, which I was stupid enough
to answer.
"I
can’t talk,” I said.
Asked why, I
told the caller that I couldn’t drop
everything for him because I was in the middle of
scoping out a situation involving someone's hand
in my cookie jar, and that my ass would be in a
sling for about two more hours."
"Well, I
could say "up yours for not jumping at my
beck and call, but you sound legit, so I won't
butt into your business," he told me.
But the doctor
did.
On the way
home, I worried that my daughter was too involved
with the high school quarterback. She loved his
passes, but I found them offensive. Sacking the
quarterback was taking on an uncomfortable
connotation for me, and although I'm not a
religious kind of guy, I found myself resorting
to the "Hail Mary" for solace, but it
never seemed to reach my intended receiver.
"Since
when do you watch basketball?,” I asked my
daughter when I got home.
“Today,
she replied.”
"Is that
a tear dribbling down your face?"
"Yes, I
had tears in both eyes before you got home, but I
was called for double dribbling."
"How foul
for someone to call you on that.”
"Listen
Dad, I'm not in the mood for your full-court
press of verbal wordplay right now.”
"Is there
something heavy duty in play here?"
"Very!”
"Want to
talk about it?"
"No, but
I know that won't stop you.”
"Shoot,”
I said, blocking my urge to say more.
"I've
been cut, not even benched, by our narcissistic
quarterback, so I'm thinking of lettering in
another sport."
"Which
means Stretch Simpkins, the center on the
basketball team?"
"Well, I
am on the rebound.”
I found her
reading an art history book a few weeks later, so
I asked if she was brushing up on something.
"I'm
tired of limiting my dating to jocks. I've
learned that I have to diversify my dating
portfolio, as well as go contrarian. So, I've
hooked up with a fine arts major whom I met at
the art museum," she explained.
"Fine
arts as in any art form developed primarily for
aesthetics and/or concept rather than utility?"
"Yes,
just as in passing an ovoid ball, or trying to
slam-dunk a big round ball through a netted hoop."
"Well,
maybe you'll actually marry a doctor, yet."
"Yeah,
but with my luck he'll be a Ph.D. in Latin."
"Point,
game, set, match,” I announced through my
clenched fist, which elicited the grin I
hoped I would get."
"You're
not as good at this as you used to be, Dad."
"No, ma
fille, you're just better at it than you think
you are," I said, feeling less sharp than I
had in quite some time.
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