Once upon a time, when I was a young man, I found myself minding The Kid. I’d just given him a bath and perched him, still naked, in his high chair. I warmed up a can of SpaghettiOs, a favorite of his, set a bowlful before him and gave him a spoon.
The doorbell rang and, as it was the upstairs flat of a duplex, I ran down to answer the door. I swung wide the door and got a slight whiff of perfume. Two beautiful young women, a pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses, stood before me. They were about my age or slightly younger, perhaps nineteen or twenty years old, impeccably dressed, coiffed and smiling, both with perfect, dazzlingly white teeth.
As a rule, I’d kept any past encounters with Jehovah’s Witnesses courteous but brief; but I was a young man then and these girls were exceptional – I lingered far too long.
After a lengthy and lively bout of theological discourse with these two young lovelies I finally remembered The Kid. By the time I got back to him, not only had he finished all the SpaghettiOs that could not evade his grasp, but he’d also taken a big crap and then fell into a deep sleep still in the high chair. The Kid, the high chair and the floor were all covered in errant SpaghettiOs and smeared over with spaghetti sauce and crap.
Back in the bathtub, I cleaned up The Kid, put on a fresh diaper and laid him down to finish his nap. I then finished cleaning the rest of the mess.
True stories are the best kinds of stories.