9 Flub the dub

JoJo curled into a fetal position in his bedroom. It was the logical response, at home, to flubbing the dub, forgetting to get the cake which was the centerpiece of his nephew’s christening day celebration. He didn’t expect anyone to come knocking. The cake was supposed to surprise baby Drew; moreover, little Drew was in his crib, stuck there like any infant. In short, baby Drew was both unaware and, perforce, incapable, so he wouldn’t be crashing down the door. Nor would Kar, who was too steamed. JoJo could just see her eyes shut while she thought of the lapse of memory and the dereliction of duty which absolutely would be interpreted as betrayal. He didn’t want to face her for awhile.
He doubted that anyone else noticed or knew. Everyone in the Guss home except Kar and baby Andrew did “their own thing.” He remembered that phrase, from his own baby days. Another was “No appointments, no disappointments.” And that far-off conversation he’d overheard at the Tiny Tots School concerning child-rearing: it was all about “letting it happen.”
He pondered each phrase, and how it had affected him, made him who he was now at age thirty-four. He wanted to blame Kar for blaming him. He knew she was blaming him. “Makes sense,” he conceded, curled on top of the quilt.
As he lay there, he saw himself looking like a comma. It was a good shape for letting God’s blessings rain down upon him. First of all, he asked for forgiveness with regard to the christening cake. Then he asked for money. Next, a Lamborghini. He realized he was being silly, and possibly was committing blasphemy. He was tired, tired as a young man could be who nearly always flubbed the dub.
“I’ll let you figure it out,” he prayed. “You must know what I need even better than I do. You’re God.”
It was baby Andrew’s christening day, a good day for prayer.


One Response to “9 Flub the dub”

  1. MOD Says:

    “Curled like a comma,” I like that.

    Jojo’s a sleeping tiger. I can’t wait for him to get his Lamborghini groove on.

    But this rather delicate, quite moving religious quality, it’s so perfectly, abstractly WHITE TRASH. God is in his heaven, and we, poor slobs that we are, are down here curled in all sorts of ugly positions.

    I just wish I could get into as perfect a comma as JoJo. Then maybe my life will start to turn around too.

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