I’m afraid I have a bit of Mr. T in me. No, not the multiple gold chain-wearing, mountain of muscle who often finds time to “pity the fool” (although secretively I hope I have him in me too, especially the gold chain part), but the Mr. T that my dad had in him.
When I was growing up, my father was a girls’ basketball coach in west Texas. This is a very serious position in west Texas; boys play football, and girls play basketball. It’s just the way of life there. Every day after my school, I’d walk over to the high school and hang out while my dad had practice. I was a bit of a mini-celebrity, as all the students knew who my father was. As I walked down the school halls, the teens would say, “Hey, that’s Mr. T son.”
No, my father also does not wear gold chains and throws pity parties while putting bad guys in their places. The students had affectionately given my dad this nickname because it his tendency to get technical fouls called against him during games. Let me be clear: my dad does not have a temper at all. But for some reason, early on in his career, the Mr. T in him would come out on game night and unleash himself on the refs.
One morning in particular I discovered my Mr. T. It is our habit in the mornings to take my wife to work downtown. We do this so we can take advantage of the HOV lane and get her there significantly quicker. The morning in question started off on the wrong foot. As always, I had to get up early, no matter what the baby or my wife were doing, because I always have to take care of the dogs. This morning, especially, they were being super-annoying. Even though I got up early, my wife and son slept in, even to the point of ignoring my numerous attempts to warn my wife that she would be late for work. By the time she got up and going, I was already feeling frustrated; however, it really wasn’t enough to bring out Mr. T. . .yet.
We eventually got on the road, but the city decided to close the HOV lane that day, and we got stuck in the same traffic that everyone else has to deal with. This meant that by the time we got home, I was late getting the baby his breakfast, which meant all the way home he let me know how unhappy he was about not getting his food on schedule. By the time we got home, my patience was exhausted, but it would be pushed even further.
I smelled it immediately upon opening our front door. We have pretty well-behaved dogs, but they have one major letdown. If we do not shut them in our bedroom when we leave, they for some reason they take the open door as both metaphoric and literal permission to let their bowels have their way with the carpet. At no time when they’re in the bedroom ever do they relieve themselves inside, but only when they have free reign on the house. I knew for a fact that my wife had been the guilty party who had failed to close the door, because she is always the last one out of the house, and I’m sure that in the rush of the morning it had slipped her mind. And by the way, this was no ordinary dog mess. I’m sure the dog had been saving up for this opportunity for awhile and took his time while making his mess (for some strange reason, I even envision him reading a magazine). So, I put the baby down, and he immediately started crying, probably because he smelled the same God-awful stench that made me want to lose my breakfast, and the fact that he still hadn’t had any. And just to add a little insult to injury, on my way to clean up the dog mess, I noticed the cat had hacked up a fur ball all over the kitchen table. The Mr. T in me was ready to explode!
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