Closet Case

So I hurt my back again. Last time it was my upper back, or as the specialist referred to it "my neck." This time it was my lower back that betrayed me. I was lifting my sleeping baby daughter out of her car seat and Sproing!!! Luckily, I left Lennon in her seat and hit the concrete alone. I'm sure many of you have fallen victim to this strange sort of lower back deal. One minute you're spry as a colt, afraid of nothing, and the next you're in the dirt, trying to remember how to breathe--suddenly faced with at least 24 hours of dependency on people who--deep down--think you're faking it so you can get pain pills. A suspicion that is tough to refute, when two days later you're zipping around like it never happened.

At first you crawl. By crawling like a wounded beast, I was able to transport my children out of the deadly mid-day heat, into the air conditioned safety of my house. Once inside I turned belly-up and for about an hour, became the most inadequate parent imaginable. (I turned a deaf ear, as the fruit of my loins ran wild and unchecked--taking full advantage of their fallen dictator, treating my home with the same kind of respect usually accorded a Tijuana outhouse.) Still and all, the kiddie chaos notwithstanding, I would've been content to lay there for all eternity.

Alas "poop happens" and the diapers were still out in the car. (That's why I'd left the house in the first place.) As I struggled to muster the mettle requisite of such a feat, the whole thing began to take on a Charlton Heston kind of desperation-- "Must Stand Up, Must . . . Change . . . Diaper." By clutching walls and furniture like a blind man on fire, I was able to map out the boundaries of my limitations. It was plain to see that God was testing me today, and if needs be I'll change that diaper lying flat on my damn back.

By good-fortune I stumbled upon a quasi-walking technique that was just disgraceful enough to work. The trick was to hunch all the way over forward and take great sweeping strides, while swinging my arms back and forth like a speed skater. I made it to the car with only minor agony, grabbed the diapers and turned to size up my journey back, only to see my elderly neighbor lady and her dog. From the look on her face, I probably should have taken a moment to explain the situation. Sadly, I could only wave and skate back inside--I was in a hurry. I was in my underwear.

After a night of sleepless torment that I wouldn't wish on Manson, I made an appointment to go see my doctor. By the time my afternoon visit arrived, I had upgraded my walking technique to sort of a "Frankenstein doing a John Wayne impression" and in this fashion I was able to convince the doctor of my genuine need for pain killers--with a minimum of dramatic embellishment (or as they call it in the NBA "flopping.")

As I drove home with my pocketful of miracles, I was listening to Perspectives with Brian Hyde. I like Bri--he's good at what he does, and if it weren't for my criminal lack of interest in any information that doesn't relate to sports, movies and music, I'd probably listen to it regularly. It's a pretty good show. The topic that day was the invasion of privacy that many of the show's callers regarded Census 2000 to pose. They made some good points about its unconstitutionality, Big Brother is watching, and so forth, and I was sufficiently impressed by their rationale that when I got home I threw my Census form in the garbage. I'm kind of a rebel, I guess. Word had it that a person could face a fine of 100 dollars for such civil disobedience, but many of the callers regarded even that as an idle threat.

Right away I ceremoniously medicated myself and laid down on the couch to watch the playoffs, (a topic I hesitate to address because by press time this will most likely be a sore subject) but before they even introduced the starting lineup, there was a knock on my door. "Bloody Hell, it was the Census Lady--these people are good." She came toting a clipboard and a long-form and was ready to make herself at home. "I've already sent that form in, ma'am," was my rebel creed. She had a ready answer for that and in the end I was barely able to stave off her relentless advance by explaining about my back injury--and I doubt that would've worked if I hadn't started to cry.

"Maybe some other time," I called after her as she reluctantly retreated from the premises and, at long last, I was able to salve my aching body and soul with the twin pleasures of prescription pain killers and professional basketball. Unfortunately the Eastern conference match-up wasn't quite exciting enough to keep my opiated mind from entertaining creeping thoughts of paranoia about my open disrespect for the "Fed'l Govmn't." And wouldn't you know it, just before I dozed off, came another knock at the door. It was the Census lady alright, and this time she brought help, a great big hand-gun and Attorney General Janet Reno. This time they marched right in, leaving little doubt that my household statistics would be thoroughly recorded--whether I liked it or not. Whatever--I've got nothing to hide.

"So let me get this straight Mr. Boneman," Reno took charge, "you live here with your wife and two children?" "Yessir, ma'am." "Is your wife at home?" "No she's at work." Just then there was a great commotion from the kitchen, "we're not at work honey, we're right here," we all turned to see five brown-haired woman in long-sleeved gingham dresses and K-mart jogging shoes clamoring toward us, "dinner's on the table dear, come before it gets cold." As the women bore me away to the kitchen, I looked back helplessly to see The Census Lady shaking her head and taking vigorous notes. "It's just some ladies from the Ward," I heard myself saying, "they brought a casserole . . . for my back."

I broke away and followed the hulking Attorney General into the living room where we were both surprised to find a couple of black dudes sitting on the couch watching TV. "Who are you guys?" Janet demanded, but they didn't so much as acknowledge her existence. After an awkward moment she turned to me, "Do you mind telling me what these guys are doing here?" "I dunno, watching the game, having a Bud?" At this they both turned to Reno and yelled, "WHAAAASUUUUP?" This scared the big gal, but she held her ground, pinched up her face and quietly replied, "Nothing." "True," the brothers replied in unison. "True."

Indignant, Reno spun on her heel and began thrashing through a lot more closets than I knew I had. I was thinking to myself, "look Mr. Reno, if you think you're going to find some sort of wacky refugee fisherman in my house, you're as crazy as you are freakish." Just then a couple of CIA-looking spooks burst through a door carrying my baby daughters in blankets. "Are these your daughters sir?" they pleaded. "Uh . . . yeah," I fired back. "We found them under a pile of oily rags in the garage." I began to suspect that this might all be a silly dream when I heard myself say, "I'm gonna have to step up the beatin's."

Reno didn't even seem interested in this development and opened a closet that unloosed a flood of basketballs and a brilliant white light. She looked awestruck by the spectre and whispered, "are you the one they call Tag?" She was nearly sent sprawling as out stumbled Greg Ostertag (except his head was really really pointy) "What are you doing?" Reno asked as she regained her balance. "I honestly don't have a clue." Then Reno, "but, but why are you here?" "Because they pay me a fortune for nothing?" (Dream-jokes are a lot funnier during the actual dream than they are on paper.) Janet nodded her head in sympathy and paid only token attention while two guys in the full quarantine suits chased a monkey right past us. "We must hurry, Mr. Hoffman" one of them yelled. "If he makes it downstairs to the sweat-shop we'll never find that sick little bugger."

Only when we heard childish giggling from within the bathroom did she snap out of her trance and turn back into the Attorney General that we know and fear. She lowered her shoulder and blew the bathroom door off its hinges and there behind a pile of suds was Elian Gonzales. (I know.) Janet was fuming with dismay at the vision, "do I have to play the "big-scary-man-with-a-gun card" again . . . punk? At first there was an eerie quiet and then two small hands parted the foam and out popped the curly-headed moppet from the Pepsi commercials. "Leave us alone," she pleaded in Chris Farley's voice. "Dammit Janet, can't you see he's just a kid." Little Elian didn't so much as turn his head toward the noisy disturbance, in fact he seemed perfectly content to play with his little boats. God bless ya, little Elian and God bless your Mother.