We didn't even get a gift certificate out of it.

Everyone has that one story, the story that they have told countless times. They'll recount in vivid detail to most anyone who is around to listen. It's the story they'll tell for the rest of their life.

Many of these stories occur in childhood.

My dad's oft told tale involves being locked in an accordion case. You're probably are asking yourself how does that happen? Well, in a way similar to children locking themselves in old refrigerators. Hide-n-seek gone horribly amiss.

Luckily my grandmother found him in the nick of time.

Unfortunately, I'm my father's daughter and the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

One of the first signs that my family is dysfunctional is that my dad, at 45 years old, still goes by the name Junior. For that reason alone, Ben has adamantly stated that we will not, under any circumstances, name our child Benjamin. I say, different middle name and the child can't possibly be a "junior." He says he never wants to take that risk.

Side note: I learned the hard way that Junior wasn't my dad's given name when, one day, I called his work (a law firm) and asked the receptionist if I could speak to Junior.

So, my story involves my mom, "Junior" and me at a Waldenbooks circa 1987. I was ten at the time and actively involved in gymnastics. "Actively involved," in my case means being horribly uncoordinated and enrolled in a gymnastics class. Actively involved also means that, everywhere I went, I was constantly turning pathetic off-balanced cartwheels or trying to do, or rather, mangle the splits.

The second indicator of familial dysfunction is that my father, whenever we're at a store or public forum, will wander off. No, he's not "special." He just gets distracted easily and is always looking for something interesting to do or see. When he wanders off, you'll usually find him at a candy vending machine or looking at magazines.

Like I said, I'm my father's daughter and, on that day, in that Waldenbooks, I wandered over to a bookcase -- probably 5 feet high -- containing cassette tapes. While checking out their selection limited to oldies and classical music, I found myself slipping into an awkward splits position. Of course, not being acquainted with balance, I grabbed, for support, the first and biggest thing I saw: the bookcase.

Yet another side note: This was also the year of the Boots. They were a pair of white leather, rhinestone-studded, calf-high boots that I lived in for the most part of 1987. They were gaudy and I loved them. On this fateful day, I, of course, was wearing them.

The details are sketchy, so I only recall a horrible loud noise, the falling of cassette tapes and a feeling of unimaginable panic. When I gained consciousness, I realized that I had been pinned down beneath the bookcase.

As I lay trapped under the case, in a state of shock induced by embarrassment, rather than pain, I decided that I would rather have people think that I was injured, or better yet, dead, than acknowledge the mess I just caused. My plans were soon interrupted by the shriek of my mother:

"Oh my God, Junior! It's Mena!"

Before this revelation, my mother had observed the aftermath with a sense of pity for the poor child and her parents. When she saw my little white boots peaking out on either side of the case, her disconnected pity soon turned into a very personal and visible sense of horror.

Junior soon came running from the back of the store and he and a clerk lifted the bookcase off my mortified frame. After realizing that I was shaken, but not hurt, my dad helped me up and out of the path of destruction. People were gathered around, displaying mixed looks of confusion and disgust.

I don't blame them.

I mean, what grown man goes by the name of Junior?

Comments

[marrije]

Brilliant! One of the best arguments in favour of recycling I have heard in a long time.

[amanda]

love it,~

[mkh]

Great story, Mena!