Hear’s the Thing With Hick…

It may come as no surprise to you that Hick regularly gets promotional materials from hearing aid products and services in the mail each week. Let the record show that I did not submit his name as a prank. Let the record further show that perhaps I should have submitted Hick’s name in earnest.

I think Hick gets these advertisements because he has been to an otarologist concerning dizzy spells, one visit which was to perform the quack procedure of turning him upside down and vibrating him. He said it worked at the time, but now I guess he’s due for more inversion and pulsation. What I do know is that such a procedure had no effect on his hearing.

All the time I tell Hick he has selective hearing. Of course he disagrees. “I’m going deaf, Val. I really can’t hear you.” He says when I grow testy (heh, heh, I said testy) after repeating myself thrice. Other times, will go off on a tirade that befuddles me. When I call him on it, he spouts some insult that I allegedly doled out to him. Um. Which was nothing similar to whatever innocent question or comment came out of my mouth. He’s like a one-man game of telephone.

At our appointment the other day, I turned to ask Hick a question about the insurance card as I filled out papers. Let the record show that I was sitting right beside him, on my ripped-out corner chair, with a partition on my left and behind our heads. A partition that could be used to project sound forward for a high school choir at a holiday concert. Besides, my mouth was a foot from Hick’s ear. He loudly declared that I need to speak up. As if I wanted the entire office to hear our business.

At home, Hick turns up his TV to a level of 37. That’s preposterous. Every morning when I turn it on before my recliner nap, it blares a wake-up call to The Pony at the other end of the house. When I watch TV there, the level is 19. That is perfectly hearable, unless Hick gets sassy. Like Tuesday morning.

I was trying to watch On the Fly, an old show about airports and the indignities, real or imagined, that air travel passengers must endure. Hick stumped his way behind the La-Z-Boy, rustled around in Frig II’s freezer for a whole wheat blueberry waffle, popped it in the microwave, and commenced to winding his cuckoo clock that he got from my grandma. This is done by yanking some chains, the grinding of which emit decibels nearly as high as that blasted cuckoo.

Of course I was not having it. How was I going to know if the passenger would be allowed to fly if she didn’t buy two seats? She said she was pregnant, which did not keep her from hanging over onto the next passenger’s seat. But she and her boyfriend were adamant that they were being disrespected because of her condition. Anyhoo, I may have muttered, under my breath, of course, a little complaint such as, “Can you make any MORE noise?”

Well. Hick flew off the handle. “I HEARD THAT! I have to wind my clock, Val! And I have to cook my breakfast!”

Funny how he could pick up such low tones through all that background noise.