Benny Jay: You’re Late! « The Third City

Benny Jay: You’re Late!

October 27th, 2009

None of this would have happened, if I hadn’t stayed up late to watch “12 Angry Men.”

Big mistake. The movie’s better that I’d expected — how could I’ve gone so long without watching it? — and when it’s over I’m too wired to sleep. So I lie on the couch and read a book by Stephen King.

I don’t crash `til four. Which means I don’t get up `til ten. And I’m so pumped up from Stephen King and “12 Angry Men” that I have to write. I’m pounding away at my computer, oblivious to the world, when my younger daughter yells up the stairs: “We gotta go….”

“What time is it?” I yell back.

“11:40….”

Uh-oh. We have fifty minutes to get to her cross country meet in a Forest Preserve on the other side of town or else — we’re late!

I scramble down the stairs, hop in and out of the shower, throw on clothes, and, shirt still damp, grab a leash and walk the dog in the rain. Yes, it’s raining!

The dog does her thing — God, she takes forever. I run back to the house, yell at my daughter “hurry up!”, fill a bowl with cereal and milk and start to gobble down breakfast as my daughter’s yells at me, “Why do you always eat at the last minute?”

“I’m hungry,” I say. Only it comes out “Ah hun-gee” cause my mouth’s filled with food.

With milk and cereal dribbling down my chin, I dash out of the house and into the car. The dashboard clock says it’s 12:20.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “The clock’s five minutes fast….”

“We’re still late….”

“Actually, we don’t have to be there for another ten minutes. So, technically, we’re still on time….”

“How can we possibly get there in ten minutes?”

She has a point. We’re roughly eight miles away from the Forest Preserve.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “Irving’s a snap on the weekends….”

As soon as I say it, we hit a wall of traffic. I’m talking bumper-to- bumper as far as the eye can see. Then little Devyn calls from the Forest Preserve to say 1.) where are you? and 2.) the coach is really mad.

Great, now I feel guilty. I hate to keep anyone waiting — and yet, I’m always late, so figure that out.

“It’s your fault,” says my daughter.

“How is it my fault?”

“Cause you were writing when you should have been getting us ready….”

“How come I have to get you ready? Isn’t that interesting. When it comes to staying out late with your friends, you’re the grown woman. But when it comes to getting out of the house on time, you’re still a kid and I’m in charge….”

Silence. She has nothing to say, cause, really what can she say. Chalk up another victory for the great debater — Benny Jay!

Dodging and darting through traffic, I reach the Forest Preserve at 12:50. “I’m gonna tell the coach, it’s your fault,” says my daughter.

“Wuss,” I say, as she walks out the door. “That’s okay – I’ll take the hit….”

I park the car and walk into the park. If nothing else, I figure I beat Maggie. One of the great things about Maggie, the mom of another girl on the team, is that she — oh, how to delicately phrase this? — tends to run a little behind.

Oops. Maggie’s standing by the finish line talking to her brother, Uncle John. Oh, no — I’m even later than Maggie!

“You’re late!” barks out Caldow, the assistant coach.

“I can explain it all,” I tell him. “It’s my daughter’s fault….”

I see the head coach and I fall on my knees and beg for forgiveness. Well, not really, but almost. “Don’t worry,” he says. Only I know that he knows that I know that he knows that I really blew it. So now I feel even worse.

Anyway, a few hours pass. We win the meet. The rain stops. I’m having fun talking to the other parents. Life’s not so bad. I’m walking across the field to the port-a potty. And my boots slip on the gravel and I fall. That’s right — I actually fall, landing face first on the ground.

The first thing I think is how ridiculous this must look. So I get up slowly, wincing and limping. I figure folks won’t laugh at me if they think I’m in pain.

Only no one’s even remotely watching me. It’s like the proverbial tree that falls in the proverbial forest. No one sees me fall so it’s like I didn’t fall at all. Get it?

Except I did fall and my hands are all scraped up. Oh, brother, what a mess. That’ll teach me to stay up late….