Tomas and the Timepiece

Overdue Humor

Photo by Dalton Smith on Unsplash

My daughter Delilah asked me if I knew a ‘nice man’ named Tomas Felpbourne.

Her phrasing probably bolstered my shaky pledge to not speak ill of people in front of my child, which I hadn’t done (more or less) in a year.

“Yes, Lilah, I do.”

“What do you think of him?”

The pause probably gave away the degree of difficulty on an honest answer, but I managed “memorable,” which probably makes me eligible for some sort of diplomacy award, somewhere.

Delilah pondered that, then said: “He gave me a watch.”

She pulled the sleeve of her coat back and displayed a gleaming hunk of metal that was one 4 Cylinder Engine away from being street legal.

It looked like the third purchase of an illiterate disco fan after hitting the lottery.

It looked like…

My blood pressure was already at ICU levels when I managed to ask why Tommy Felpbourne had given a gift to my eleven year old daughter.

Tommy, who adopted the moniker Tomas the week his father’s bowling alley chain installed tanning beds, was, in my humble opinion, the chapped skin left over on the edge of an empty plastic tube of balm.

Tommy, Tomas if you must, (and he musted) and I attended high school together. He was a Porcelain City Pirates minor, minor league full kit wanker, he told people he had “been deployed to the Persian Gulf” when his dad sent him to Dubai to pick up the remains of his uncle who died of syphilis, he had a Boston Terrier whose name he would change to appease the women he was trying to impress, (then scolded the dog in semi-private when it wouldn’t respond to Ginsberg, Ginsburg, or Chomsky) and almost worst of all, senior year he narced me for having a pint of Don Q in a fake container of Icy Hot. I got kicked off the soccer team, and Tommy Felpbourne got a varsity letter for playing ten garbage time minutes in a 9-0 loss to Our Lady of Perpetual Penance.

Delilah must have gotten the vibe that I didn’t really like nice Mr. Felpbourne, maybe because twelve mustache hairs fell from my face into my extra large order Clam Chowder Curly Fries.

She swallowed hard and blinked so many times I thought static electricity was going to pull the mustache hairs from my insta-alopecia up into the air and attach them to her eyelashes.

“He gave it to me the night he asked mommy to marry him.”

“I”...I said, my sternum starting to flake away like dollar store travel deodorant… “wasn’t aware that mommy was dating Mr. Felpbourne.”

Releasing each word of that sentence without exploding into a psychotic rage was like trying to bench press Guam.

Delilah smiled. There was sadness to the smile, but a tiny bit of mischief too, like she was about to share a secret that was so good she could handle the punishment for divulging it.

“I,” she said, using her right arm to hold up the oversized Bee Gees signature Tag Heuer knockoff on her thin left arm, “don’t think mommy was aware she was dating him either. She said it was an accidental swipe, whatever that means.”

“Ummm,” I said, sloppily spooning mustache laden Clam Chowder Fries into my shaking mouth to buy time, swallowing, only slightly gagging, “how did mommy respond?”

“She told Mr. Felpbourne she needed time to think about it.”

“TIME TO THINK ABOUT WHAT????” I screamed, a piece of clam or potato or possibly part of by-now-well-ground incisor hitting the woman in the booth across from us in the hair.

Delilah shrunk a little bit, and I patted the hand that wasn’t being weighed down by the ridiculous, cubic zirconia (I think) encrusted time piece.

“I’m sorry Lilah…”

“It’s okay Daddy, Mommy said you were going to snap so hard that your scrotum was gonna take out one of the solar arrays on the International Space Station.”

“Is…ummm…do you think she’s going to say yes?”

“I’m not sure, Daddy. She made a list of pros and cons.”

“What,” I said, chewing my thumbnail down to the purlicue “could possibly…with all respect to Mr. Felpbourne…be on the pro list?”

“I only saw one, Daddy. It said “Free Bowling for Life.”

I relaxed to the point that I was able to quickly text my ex-wife:

If you marry Felpbourne I’ll blow up the public library with me inside it

I smiled at my daughter.

“Do you like the watch, honey?”

Delilah shrugged, noncommital.

Monica texted me back.

If I marry Felpbourne, invite me to join you at the detonation

My whole body relaxed.

Delilah noticed.

“Are you full daddy? Can we go shopping?”

“Sure, honey,” I said. “Have you ever been to a pawn shop?”

***