I drove up to St. Augustine last week from Central Florida. Took off a little early from work and did the I-4, I-95 ride without incident until one of the dogs starts puking in the back of the truck. I pulled over and fortunately; well relatively fortunately, the outflow ended up on a plastic food bag which I quickly emptied of its contents and stuffed into another, larger bag. The dog was ok. I think it had eaten a dishrag, or a tampon. I couldn’t tell for sure and no further research was to be conducted.
Proceeding on with the final leg of the three hour drive, the teenagers start griping because they have run out of In-Sync or Backstreet Boys CDs on their portable CD players. These portables are a wonderful invention. I remedied the complaints by slamming in the new 311 CD, which nobody likes but me, but at least at high volume, I could not hear the whining.
Arriving at the condo, I grabbed the largest bags and head upstairs. The girls grab their bags and almost nothing else and sullenly start to wander. The wife ends up with the two dogs and they promptly crap, simultaneously, next to the truck. I am immediately called back down to the truck to clean up the mess.
This is the sorry state to which I have fallen. My position in life is now defined by my many domestic tasks. Forget about my professional Wall Street performance, I am merely a driver, puke picker upper, crap collector. If there is an unpleasant job to be done, it automatically becomes mine.
I run back down the stairs with the Pooper Scooper Bag in hand, eagerly anticipating the next few minutes. I clean up the mess, efficiently and quickly, but I must still take the bag and its fecal contents out to the dumpster, located at the other end of the parking lot.
It is at this point that I notice the “Dog Sickness Bag” still sitting in the truck, and right next to the vomit bag is my revenge; my “Free-ride” skateboard. The board is orange, nearly four feet long with Kryptonite Wheels and special trucks. It is bad ass. When it is beneath my feet, it carves like I’m on a wave, rail to rail, hard slides into the turns. My children hate it when I ride it in their presence.
I grab it at the same time I pick up the disgusting puke package, push off on the board and start rolling across the vast expanse of parking lot. The wife and kids come out of the condo in time to see me waving madly as I carve the board up the high side of the parking lot pavement, then cut back down to the flatter road. I am holding dog-effluent-prizes, one from each end of the pups in bags above my head. Grinning like I’ve got a prize trophy bass in each hand, I turn and finish my short ride facing backwards, up on the nose, a pretty nifty trick even without the crap & puke sacks. I slide to a stop right in front of the dumpster. Mission accomplished.
The children stand transfixed, trying to hide their faces pretending that they don’t know me. I make sure to shout and gesture, a madman, an old guy on a long board skate; poop in hand, in front of God and everybody. For a moment, I am free.