Like Prairie Dogs

October 17, 2016

I have not written a story in a very long time. This one is a true story...

     Many, many, many years ago (about 32 to be exact), I was having a meal at Steak n' Shake with a man that I was dating at the time.

     I had a steakburger and fries. As you probably know, SnS has very skinny fries. While eating them, I had one go down my throat, unchewed, where it got stuck half way down and half way up.

     When I realized I had a fry stuck in my throat, I popped up. Like a prairie dog. I was still sitting inside the booth. You know, those booths where the seat is bolted to the floor and you can't slide the seat forward or back? But back then, I was a little tiny skinny thing and I could stand almost straight up inside the booth. And I popped up.

     The fry moved a bit and I sat back down. But as soon as I sat down, it felt stuck again. And I was having a hard time breathing around it! So... I popped back up!

     At this time, my dining companion asked, "What the ^&%$ are you doing?" Finally, that fry went on down and I could breath! So I sat back down. I explained I was choking on a fry. "Well don't do that. You are embarrassing me!" He replied. (!!!!!!!)

     Fast forward about 22 years or so.

     My husband had a pair of shorts that me and my daughter affectionately (sort of) called Dicky Dukes. They are the male version of Daisy Dukes. They were cut off blue jeans with the frazzled edges. Each time they were washed, more of the frazzled edges would frazzle and they became shorter and shorter and more and more embarrassing.

     Much to mine and daughter's horror, he wore them to the movies with us one night.

     This daughter is one who is not one to draw attention to herself, and sometimes might be called just plain shy. She would rarely do anything that would make herself stand out in a crowd or cause her embarrassment.

     But her Dad wore the Dicky Dukes to the movies that night.

     Our movie had not started yet. In fact, we were a bit early and was forced to sit in the lobby while the previous showing finished up and the theater employees cleaned up a bit.

     Several young girls stood nearby where she and I sat. Dad was standing close by. In his Dicky Dukes.

     The young girls took notice of this nearly white headed man in his fifties wearing frazzled cut off blue jeans that showed way more thigh then his wife and teenage daughter wanted to see even around the house, what less out in public. They at once started bending over and whispering in each other's ears, giggling and pointing.

     Daughter popped straight up off that bench. Like a prairie dog.

     I looked up. Way up, because she is tall. And I saw the fire in her eyes and the tightness in her jaw. I looked at her and I looked at the girls. She thought twice and sat down. But the girls pointed and giggled again. And she popped up. Again.

     "Don't do it!" I hissed to daughter. "But they are making fun of my dad!" she exclaimed. "Let it go!" I urged. "But it's my dad!" She hissed back at me.

     I think the girls realized they were barking up a very tall tree, and they moved on. Thank God! Because I was beginning to get embarrassed! And he, of course, was oblivious to all this going on.

    After the movie, we scurried on to the car, dragging dad with us,  trying to avoid any more run ins with judgemental teeny-boppers and anyone else who might find humor in dad's attire. For the most part, he was never none the wiser.

    Daughter and I discussed it later, and she said she really wanted to tell those girls off. But I told her I was quite sure if he were not her dad, and she saw a man in his fifties with greying hair and frazzled edge cut off blue jean shorts that went way up to there, she would probably giggle and point with her girlfriends too.

    And she agreed.