The Mailbox

EDIT: This blog has a "G" rating and I didn't consider it when I first posted this story. I put in some language that wouldn't be appropriate for all ages...or maybe not for ANY age. I've changed a few of the words, substituted some special characters into the few curse words. I hope this satisfies the morals police and doesn't offend anyone's sensibilities. The words should still be able to be understood, so if you never, ever would want to read them however they're spelled, maybe you should just close the page and/or go somewhere else.

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My pop's been dead for over two years now, so I guess it's safe to confess my sins. Well, one of 'em, anyway.

It was my 21st birthday and my pals wanted to do something "special" for me, so we loaded up in JB's car and drove to Pampa, via the back way, to get some beer.

One friend, not having any money to buy me anything, instead gave me a huge box of bottles to throw at signs along the way. Now, I'm not saying that's a good thing to do; it's illegal, it's littering, and sometimes the bottles can bounce off and come right back to you. Still, it was a "fun" thing to do.

There wasn't a lot to do back then, come to think of it.

I was riding "shotgun" and chunking the bottles at any sign which whizzed by, missing far more often than hitting them. (several of the bottles that were handed to me were full of beer, drained, then thrown. That's why my accuracy wasn't so hot.) We were about a mile away from my folk's turnoff when someone said "Betcha won't throw one at yer old man's mailbox."

"Thass right." I told 'em. "I know better."

"You ain't gotta hair on yer a$$." came the reply. (in unison)

I picked out the largest bottle, and waited; I knew what I'd do, I'd make an effort but not aim, JUST to show them that I did indeed have some hair on my a$$. I really didn't want to destroy dad's mailbox as he had just replaced it after it being more-or-less destroyed by a snow plow the previous winter.

"Here it comes!" yelled my pals. (in unison)

I flicked the quart bottle out, not even aiming but was horrified when I heard a "Whack-Crash!!!" as we sped by. Everyone was laughing (in unison) their a$$es off (the ones with hair) but I was filled with dread. Somehow I knew, especially in a small town, that my dad would find out.

We got our beer, and the day after my birthday was hangover day, but was also the day my mom had invited me out to give me my present and the cake she had baked for me.

As soon as I walked in the house, my dad pounced on me "Did you see my mailbox?"

Oh Lord. He knows. Not just the Lord knows, but dad knows and I was more afraid of him than I was afraid of God. I managed to stammer that I hadn't noticed. Pop raged on.

"Yeah, some little sunuvab*tch threw a big beer bottle at it, ruined it. I had JUST bought the damn thing, too!"

I didn't know what to say. I knew not to say anything because I thought this might be a trap for my dad to get me to admit what I'd done.

Dad continued with his anger.

"I'd like to whip the little b*st*rd's a$$ who did that." he fumed.

Still afraid to say anything, I couldn't help but find some humor in his cursing. "Sunuvab*tch" and "b*st*rd" were getting a little too personal, but pop didn't know it.

Getting angrier as he went on, dad continued:

"Nah, I'd just get in trouble for that. What I would rather do is kick that little sh*t*$$'s father...for not raising him better."

Talk about conflicting emotions; I wanted to shrink to nothing because I was ashamed of what I had done, esp. to my dad...but on the other hand, I was trying hard not to giggle thinking about my dad punching himself out. I also wanted to puke; partly because of the hangover, partly from fear.

I waited a couple months, then bought my dad one of those humongous mailboxes, the biggest they made. I also bought him some beer. In cans.