Mesomorph spent six weeks this summer in the quest for a car which would not humiliate him his Senior year of high school. Of course, five of those weeks were devoted to wearing me down.
This effort cost me considerable angst and a few bucks, a fiscal debt my younger son has pledged to repay and which is secured by his IOU that authorizes me to demand payment from his sole reliable source of income – also me. As for the psychological trauma, I’m on my own. All in all, it’s a tidy arrangement.
Other than ending his paternal siege (a ceasefire granted on terms poignantly reminiscent of those ending hostilities in Viet Nam), I garnered precious little from this endeavor – which goes far in explaining my determination to create this post from such thin gruel.
In any case, Mesomorph and whatever money he earns now reside here.
And, just to clarify, this is the vehicle (pictured here newly purchased and, since the latest automotive acquisition, reclaimed by Prodigal, its original owner) that, had he been forced to continue using, would have devastated his self-esteem and social standing.
Mesomorph has always had discerning taste. Beginning at the age of seven, he routinely screened his parents’ clothing selections as we dressed for a special occasion, and, on occasion, archly put to us such queries as “Do those really go together?” and “Is that what you’re going to wear to the party tonight?” followed by suggestions that unerringly resolved whatever fashion faux pas he had spotted.
The most telling incident, however, occurred when he was eight or nine. In one of my desperate attempts to stimulate Da Boyz to read more, I offered them each a subscription to any magazine they chose.1 Mesomorph selected Power Yachting, which featured vessels costing $2-20 million and which he not only read from cover to cover but also carried with him like a talisman. When his grandmother was visiting, he asked her if she would buy him that month’s Power Yachting centerfold (a starter yacht, priced at $4 million, give or take a stateroom). Grandma confessed that she was about $3,999,940 short. The Mesomorph, undeterred, asked if she would buy it for him — if she had the $4 million. She replied in the affirmative, laughing it off, and, I’m sure, considers the case closed. I’m certain, however, that Mesomorph continues to carefully monitor Missouri lottery winners and should Gram’s number come up, she should expect her grandson, wearing a captain’s cap, knocking at her door within 24 hours.
_____________________- The magazine choices did exclude porn, Soldier of Fortune, The Ku Klux Klan Klaxon, and a few others — most of which I probably would have nonetheless bought for them if I had been convinced it would entice them to read. [↩]
No Comments so far ↓
Like gas stations in rural Texas after 10 pm, comments are closed.