This is another of those six sentence challenges. The prompt word for this week is trunk.
You’ve created a list of New Year’s resolutions for the coming year. They are helpful, practical, and attainable. You are certain that you can finish them all rather quickly, but every time you try to tackle one, you hear a sweet little voice.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I don’t have to do what? What does that mean?”
You look around. There’s no one there, just a disembodied voice.
A couple of days later, you’re at your kitchen table, checking the employment ads. You’re looking for a new retail job. Maybe you can move up to management.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“Where the hell are you? What do you want?” You search your house. There’s no one there.
You shrug and go on about your business. A week later, you’re boxing up all the soft drinks in your fridge, the hostess twinkies, and candy bars. You have to think before you add the chocolate. You grimace, but you’re going to lose ten pounds by taking the sweets out of your diet.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“Do what, dammit? Who are you?” You dump the box in your dumpster—with emphasis.
You’re on your way to the fitness center, gym clothes packed in your bag. On the way to the car, you get the voice. You’re outside next to your car. There’s nowhere to hide, not a tree or a bush. Your patience is shot.
“What in the bloody hell do you want?”
You hear a chuckle. “Get real.”
“Get real?”
“Ten pounds?”
You’re still looking around for the voice. “It’s a place to start.”
“You can do better than that.”
“How much do you think I need to lose?” You open the passenger door and sit in the car, peering under the dash and into the back seat.
“I don’t think you need to lose weight.”
“What?”
“Is that the best you can do? Lost weight, exercise, change dead-end jobs. Is that all you want to do with your life??
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing if that’s all you want.”
“What should I want?”
“Beats me. You want to spend your life selling stuff?”
“What’s wrong with selling stuff?”
“I remember when you wanted to sing Aida. What’s stopping you?”
“What’s stopping me? Do you have any idea how hard it is to get into opera?”
“No. But you do. You want a New Year’s Resolution? Let’s get started.“
“What if I fail?”
“What if you don’t try?”
Uncle George had had a few beers that night. Quite a few actually. Somehow, the topic of duck hunting came up and my son’s ears perked. He was ten or eleven at the time. He asked a bunch of questions and, before you know it, George had invited him on a duck hunt the next day.
“Now, you have to get up really early to hunt ducks,” George told him. “It’s not like pheasants that you can hunt in the afternoon. So I’ll meet you here at the bottom of the stairs at five thirty-two tomorrow morning. Do you think you can make it?”
Sean nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes. I can.” My boy’s eyes shone. He’d never before been invited to hunt with the men.
“Well, you’d better turn in,” George suggested. “Five thirty-two comes pretty early.”
Sean agreed and disappeared to one of the bedrooms. I don’t know if he slept that night. I know he had no alarm clock, but at five thirty-two he was sitting on the bottom step. Aunt Walleen nearly stumbled on him on the way to the bathroom that morning.
“What’re you doing here?”
“Uncle George said he’d take me duck hunting at five thirty-two.”
I wasn’t there, but I can imagine that Walleen grinned a wicked grin as she returned to the bedroom. She’d have shaken George’s shoulder none too gently.
“What? What’s the matter? Is the house on fire?”
“No fire, George, but you promised a kid you’d take him hunting.”
George rolled over. “Okay. Okay. I’ll take him hunting this afternoon.”
“He’s waiting on the steps, George. You told him you would take the dog and go duck hunting at five thirty-two this morning.”
“But I don’t have a duck dog.”
“Don’t matter, George.”
“Five thirty-two,” he mumbled. “Why would I say such a thing?”
“You were drunk, George.”
“Had to be.”
“Well, he’s waiting and you’d better pry that old body of yours out of this bed and take that boy hunting.”
So Uncle George pried his eyes open and lifted himself out of his nice, warm, comfortable bed and braved the ice on the lake to take my boy duck hunting. They did not bag a single duck. I’m not sure they even saw one.
But an old guy kept his word to a young one, even though he was a little late.
And that means something.