Saturday I dropped The Pony off at the local junior college to take the ACT. He's taken it a couple of times already, but he's chasing that elusive perfect score of 36. Right now his official score is 34. He thinks he did well this time, having been able to go back and check his answers on all parts before time ran out. He said there were only three math problems on which he was not sure, but he had narrowed it down to a 50-50 chance with his answers. AND he says he will still be disappointed if he only moves up to a 35, which is the top score his brother Genius attained. Other kids think he's nuts, because the Missouri average composite score for 2014 was 21.8, what with testing 76% of all high school graduates, not just the college-bound elite.
After abandoning my young nerd, I went to Walmart for some unobserved Valentine shopping. I stashed my purchases in T-Hoe's rear end and headed home to catch up on some neglected chores until it was time to return for The Pony.
As Even Steven would have it, Hick turned up as I arrived. That's how it always is. Hick has some kind of sixth sense that acts as a GPS for my whereabouts. He needs a box of Tic-Tacs in his pocket, like Elaine gave The Sidler down at J. Peterman. Wherever Val goes, so goes Hick. At least around the homestead, where I can't escape him by vehicle.
There he was, revealed as I opened the garage door, standing just outside the people door fiddling around with the pet food. "I got you biscuits!" Hick said, proudly holding a clear plastic bag of pink and green bone-shaped dog biscuits over his head like a leather drawstring bag of gold dust. He came through the garage and started for the rear of T-Hoe.
"Wait! You can't go back there!"
"Why not? I was going to help you carry things in." Hick opened the passenger door to inquire.
"Because I have Valentine stuff in there. So leave it. And leave me alone. I have to go in the house first, before I get it out, because I have to go to the bathroom."
"I have to go to the bathroom, too." Hick usually tries to outdo me, like that Kristen Wiig character, Penelope, on SNL who used to one-up every claim by every other person.
"I have to go first! Which bathroom are you going in?"
"The one right around the corner. The outdoor bathroom!"
And with that, Hick walked out the garage people door, turned right down the brick sidewalk, and stood in the front yard facing the gravel road. No. He did not have a toilet, nor a urinal, in his outdoor bathroom.