Even Steven is monkeywrenching my Saturday plans.
Just when I was confident that somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good...Evil Stevie tries the old phonograph-record screech on my idyllic outing. Hick is with cold.
To hear Hick tell it, in his feeble, raspy voice that not even a day off from work could repair, he is knocking at death's door. Excuse me. We're dealing with Hick. The man who assumes every headache is a brain tumor, every sore throat a deadly case of epiglottitis, every stubbed toe a bout of gout, and every tummy pain an ectopic pregnancy. Okay. I might have exaggerated on that last one.
I, on the other Germ-X-doused hand, do not see Hick at death's door. I see him huddled in his copper-colored 1980 Olds Toronado, crouching below window level, at dusk, parked out on the street beside a mailbox labeled "The Deaths," peering into their picture window as they sit down at the dining room table, all resplendent in their hooded black robes, scythes leaned against the sideboard, ready to dig into a sumptuous feast, as Daddy Death says, "Let's hope this time we aren't interrupted by a knock at the door." Yeah. Just like a Gary Larson cartoon in my old Far Side calendar.
To hear Hick tell it, he was too sick today to properly unclog my kitchen sink that he said he unclogged Sunday afternoon. But he wasn't too sick to drive himself to town for a keg of NyQuil to drown his sorrows tonight. I say he might as well drink. Alcohol is probably healthier than NyQuil. I suggested that he go right to bed, because I can't draw out my bedtime until much past 2:00 a.m. I have work tomorrow, you know. And Hick may not. I figure if he goes to bed now, he'll be restless in the early morning hours, and I can sleep the sleep of the un-sprayed-upon-by-Hick's-breathing apparatus while Hick rests in the recliner.
As Even Steven is my witness, I am going to ensure that Hick makes a miraculous recovery by Saturday. Even if it means that I have to do a basketful of good deeds in the next three days. The Pony and I are hiding out in the basement, washing our hands of Hick in more ways than one. We have no intention of contracting his ailment. We have plans to invade a bookstore on Saturday. And we need a driver.
I'm going. I'm really going.