Gary Worden has a Cold
Gary Worden has the sniffles and he probably guesses that I don’t notice that fact. (You know Gary as the owner of Piropos, Parkville Mini-Golf and the Main Street Inn.) Oh…but I do…I do notice. I notice everything.
My nose acutely picks up the smell of mentho-lyptus upon entering his office. My eyes train on the crumpled, gold colored Hall’s wrapper on his desk. That’s because I’m not the devil may care guy I used to be a few months ago. No – as annoyingly predicted, my life has changed – I now have a baby boy.
I know a lot of the parents in this community are laughing at me – first time parents are so silly. For instance, if we drop the “binky” on the floor, we’ll boil it in a a 7-gallon lobster pot of water before even dreaming of giving it back to the kid. (By the second kid, I’m told, you can drop the binky in a pile of elephant dung, wipe it off on your shirt and give it back to the baby and not lose a moment’s sleep.)
I haven’t seen Gary in at least two weeks. I was off screwing around in Wyandotte County with an ill-fated newgspaper startup and he was somewhere in Florida, doing whatever it is Gary does.
Actually, I have spent time on the road with Gary Worden. I know what he does during his travels. When he’s not making spur of the moment condominium purchases, he’s spending time with famous aviators and celebrities like Howard Hughes, Harrison Ford and Calista Flockhart. But it’s been a few years since I’ve spent time with Gary in what was apparently Mos Eisley – and it doesn’t matter because he just coughed.
It’s as if I can see the virus leap out of his mouth, riding on the crest of the cough. I turn my head and bury my mouth in my forearm, but I fear it’s too late. I know I’ve contracted whatever Tatooine Legionnaire’s disease he is haphazardly projecting around the office building he owns. But it’s not me I’m worried about: it’s the baby boy!
My thoughts immediately turn towards Kleenex and soap. I have to get out of this guy’s office. I have to get away from his communicable disease. I have to go to the local health department and get a nuclear fallout scrub down with harsh, yet sanitary, chemicals and pumice stone. My urge to find a vial of Purel rivals Parker Posey’s search for the Busy Bee in “Best in Show.”
I’m freaking out.
Later that night, I sit in the rocker, singing “Mull of Kintyre” for the baby boy after his latest maternal sponsored feeding. I sang to him in the womb and my wife and I like to pretend that he remembers that and particularly enjoys hearing me sing to him on the terrestrial side. The other day I made breakfast for my wife and her visiting friend and sang to the baby boy to calm him down and let them enjoy the meal I made for them – waffles and bacon and what not (what not meaning eggs). I started with “Meet the Beatles,” moved onto “Rubber Soul” and “Revolver” and quickly realized I needed a new record contract if my wife and friend were going to continue at their leisurely pace.
But I don’t care. I swaddle the kid, I rock him back and forth and after I finish singing the entire B-side medley of “Abbey Road,” I segued seemlessly into the Wings and the Plastic Ono Band catalogue. I didn’t stop singing until the last waffle was finished and “the doggone girl was mine.”
That’s sacrifice, folks. In the meantime, stay healthy or stay home…my baby boy doesn’t dig on swine.
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