Of all the pictures that could possibly taken of dude all dandied up for a wedding (a wedding he actually needed to stand up for at the church, no less), I suppose it’s only fitting that the only shots of him from said event involved some sort of mayhem…
Considering I had a limited window in which to get everything done, I tagged the windows and strapped on some cans, neither of which proved as simple as they may seem. That particular model of vehicle was notably lacking on any ready spots to lash anything to–no hitch, no bumper, not even any brackets underneath. This I know from crawling underneath said vehicle and pawing around like a blind man.
I finally found some roughly 3/4 holes in the wheel of spare tire that was mounted down there. And since they made feel up the underside of the car for a good five minutes (and because it better hid said noisemakers better), I made sure to tie said rattle cans at the farthest point forward down there. Not once feeling the slightest bit of guilt, either: The fellow getting married, you see, did MY ride home just a few months back at MY wedding last year. He even greased my doorknobs up real good (something I found by sticking my whole palm in to open the door for my bride when the photog insisted we fake our leaving so he could get some departure pictures). He even filled my cab up with ballons, floor to windshield…
So no guilt was felt–well, almost… More on that in a bit.
Even painting those windows didn’t go exactly to plan–in fact, notice the small window just above, how the numbers to that date are way thin in one spot, quite a bit thicker in the year–the first paint pen I grabbed wasn’t working right. Started sending all these runs down at one point, so I just wiped it off best I could by hand. Grabbed a new pen and had no problems at all, afterward.
Ever heard of getting caught red handed? I walked back in the building with white hands–way whiter than normal, anyway–and headed straight for the bathroom to clean up. And who should follow me in but said groom. I went straight for the sink, just scrubbing away while he makes use of the other facilities, just chatting my ear off the whole time. It never occurred to him, it seemed, that I never used anything but the sink. Not ’til later, anyway.
Remember I said ALMOST no guilt? Considering how snug it was when I was down there tying cans in good enough knot so it wouldn’t just slip off, it occurred to me that he, especially dressed like a penguin, may not fit down there as well. Ol’ boy’s quite bit thicker than I am, in fact. Plus, knowing he planned to put on several more miles that night, I couldn’t just leave him like that. So right before I left, I shouldered up to him.
Hey dude, says I, you wouldn’t have pocketknife on you, would you?
Innocent enough question, from a dude like me. After all, I’d left mine at home during MY wedding, so I wasn’t rattling stuff in my pockets during the ceremony. Still, I rarely go anyplace without at least one blade stashed someplace handy. I wound up having to borrow a knife, a few times, afterward at my own shindig.
As I suspected, he starts apologizing instantly, sounding like he might’ve had the same thought I did about the pocket jangles in church. You shoulda seen his eyes turn to saucers when I handed him mine. Told him: Just get it back to me next time you see me, just in case you might find yourself in need of one later on.
You could even see him realizing what I did and didn’t do in that recent bathroom visit, and mentally counting the vast number of times my exact whereabouts had been unknown throughout the evening. It was hitting, right about then, too, along with a less than cheerful look, that palmful of vaseline incident at MY wedding…
Funny thing was–I least I found it funny, anyhow–despite hinting I’d do otherwise on several occasions–I never did goop him. Why? I couldn’t help thinking how ridiculous it might look for said groom, big stout fellow, ducking down at every door handle, nervous a long-tailed at a gear shop to actually grab the handle for a proper palm greasing.
And he now thinking how he’s gotten off easy, I couldn’t help thinking, too, how funny it might be, that when he got back from his honeymoon cruise, having long forgotten car antics, he grab said handle and guess what? Yep… All gooped, Signed: Love, BoB…
I never made it Galveston while he was away, though I would’ve loved to. I guess I’ll just have to catch up at family gathering. Like Easter, or Fourth of July, maybe. Thanksgiving…
Knowing he’ll probably read this, I can’t be too specific. I can, however, keep him on his toes.
Of course, I say all of this to leave you, my readers, with one last thought: Although I may have plenty of outlaw coursing through my veins on any given day, the REAL OUTLAW in this situation–both at this wedding and my own–wasn’t the fellow who greased kobs or tied cans under cars. No, the real outlaw is my wife’s dad, a cheerful fellow most folks only know as Rusty.
He’s definitely the REAL OUTLAW among us.
Why would I say such a thing? It’s simple, really. You see, the ONLY reason either of us–me or said groom–came equipped with rattle cans or paint markers or jars of vaseline was because they were all supplied in the handy kits provided to us, weeks in advance, by this friendly, kindly ol’ boy named Rusty–an old car guy, himself–who fills said packs with things intended to annoy, but not destroy, said vehicles. That way, he can sit back, play innocent enough, and never has to get his hands dirty.
So hat’s off, to you, sir. Kudos! You’re truly the real outlaw among us. They never see you coming…
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