I grew up in a nice family. When you’re surrounded by niceness, sometimes situations come up that leave you uncomfortable. My cousin Char is probably the nicest of us all, and therefore she finds more situations that are uncomfortable.
When Char was twenty-four and visiting for a week, my mom asked her to drive our sweet neighbor, Mrs. Joyce, to the mall, along with her nephew visiting from Ireland. Char agreed that would be a nice thing to do.
When it was time to go, only Mrs. Joyce came out the door, dressed in her Sunday best, wearing a hat, and holding her purse under her arm. She got in the car and whispered to Char, “He is driving me crazy! For a forty-year-old man, he can’t do a thing for himself! He thinks I’m his servant!”
Char felt her stomach start to knot. Mrs. Joyce settled in the front passenger seat, and they sat waiting for Martin. In a few minutes, Martin came out of the house wearing a skimpy, green bathing suit adorned with shamrocks, and a pair of sandals. Nothing else!
He had carefully combed his red hair from one side of his head to the other, to hide a huge bald patch. As he opened the car door, Char could see his paunch belly. He had two patches of red curly hairs springing out on his chest, which made it look like his nipples had eyebrows.
His skin was baby powder white, but he didn’t smell nearly as pleasant. An overwhelming cloud of “Musk for Men” filled the car.
Mrs. Joyce didn’t say a word, so Char didn’t know what to do. She kept sneaking a look at him in her rearview mirror. At that point, she was feeling queasy, horrified at the prospect of anyone seeing her with him.
Remember, I told you my cousin was nice. The lesser of two evils was to avoid a confrontation with him, so she drove off to the mall.
When they arrived, Mrs. Joyce bolted out of the car, waved, and said, “See you at four.” Off she ran. Char was left alone with “Nature Boy,” as she called him. They walked into the building, and he strolled beside her in his tiny, shiny shamrock trunks and sandals, swinging his arms as if he was on the beach.
She pretended this was normal.
When Char gets nervous, she gets chatty. As long as someone is talking, things are good. So she was in full chatterbox mode.
“Martin, what do you do for a living? Do you have a girlfriend? How old are you? Do you like it here in the USA? How long will you be staying?”
She also twirls her naturally curly hair when she gets anxious. By now, she was twirling away and chatting incessantly. “Martin, are you chilly?”
“Thanks for asking, Char. I’m a little warm. I wonder if you’ve noticed people staring at us.”
“Staring? At us? Why would they stare at us?” she asked as she twirled her hair with both hands.
Shoppers in the mall must have thought they both just escaped from a mental institution. Martin was half-naked and Char had her hair in a bunch from twisting the curls with both hands. She looked as if she’d been to Princess Leah’s hairdresser; she had her hair knotted into wads under each ear.
Finally, Martin spotted a men’s store and went in to shop. She waited outside the store until he returned, still in his Tarzan outfit, carrying two large bags of clothes. “Oh dear, I seem to be missing my wallet,” he said.
“Where did you have it last?” she asked, and then realized that it had to be in his teeny tiny bathing suit because he was not carrying it in his hands. She bit her lip and under her breath, she prayed, “Please God, make this day end.”
“Oh, there it is,” he said as he tapped his rear end.
Char shivered and offered to carry one of the bags (I told you she was nice).
When Char got home, she told Mom what had happened.
Mom, who is also very nice, said, “Char…,” and she burst into a major fit of laughter. She snorted and coughed, tears were rolling down her face. Each time she tried to say, “Char…,” she would start laughing all over again.
Finally, Mom managed to ask, “Why didn’t you just tell him to put some clothes on?”
“That’s the million-dollar question! I guess I didn’t want to make him feel weird.”
Now, isn’t that nice?
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