Well, I have done my man wrong, not once but twice this past weekend.
1) I stand corrected. Apparently the infamous unshaved toe/ski event did not take place in a hotel in Michigan. It happened in Wisconsin. But he did not deny that it happened, just emphatic that I had the state wrong. Sorry, I’m a little vague on the significance – both are snow covered, cold and have ski-able hills. But I was wrong, he was right. Write it down please.
2) I also discovered that I seemingly don’t “embellish” stories that directly relate his heroics sufficiently, in fact I apparently downplay the events.
So...
We’re stepping back in time again… circa 1991-1992. We’re living in a small house on a river, deep in the woods, on a country road about 5 miles from the nearest 1-stop light town. We’re talking boon docks here folks. Now, to set the tone, I’m returning home sometime from somewhere in the evening, but it’s full dark. Mark is at home waiting, can’t remember if we had Ethan yet or not, but if we did he’s a baby and it’s pretty irrelevant to my story.
Now, in the country, where the road is straight and flat for miles and miles, you can see an oncoming car for a very, very long way. And sometimes people don’t change to their dim headlights right away, 1) because it really is a long, long way until you need to, 2) there’s deer that have a habit of bounding into the road and the farther you can see them, the better.
So… when someone has “forgotten” to turn down the brights it’s customary to give a quick “flick” of the brights to remind them, “Hey… you’re pretty close now”. And, when they don’t get the hint to “flick” them again, to just say “Hey! That’s getting really bright, do you mind?”. And, should they be stubborn, or just plain jerks, you turn your own on in self-defense with a “Fine! I can play that game too.” and you drive on down the road until a few miles later you see the next car. Honestly, if you weren’t supposed to give a courtesy blink then cars wouldn’t be equipped to, and if you weren’t supposed to honk if there’s danger or someone’s in the way or being an idiot then cars wouldn’t have horns either.
Now, I play this game pretty well. Still do although with the concealed-weapons laws I’m more cautious. But usually 1 flick, maybe 2, are all that’s needed and the person just turns them down with an “oops, sorry bud” and we go on our merry way.
This particular night I had gotten to the second flick, well, maybe I had finally flashed my brights, but this specific car was a van full of preppy guys on the town (where, I don’t know, I think they were lost) with their girls and they obviously didn’t know the game. They spun around and began following me, right on my bumper, brights in my mirror.
Now, I’m not a city girl, but I’m not that stupid. I did not stop the car, I did not even slow down. Instead, I sped up. These kids were pretty serious and kept following. I swung off what passes for a 2-lane highway in that part of the country and onto our road. From there it was a mile to the house so I laid on the horn. Not honking. Just 1 long blare with a couple of short staccato bursts so Mark would know someone wasn’t just leaning on a horn. About 100 yards from the house I rounded a corner and pushed the garage door button.
I coasted into the driveway as the door lifted, yuppies still close on my tail. As the light came on, the door rose and a pair of steel-towed boots, worn jeans, flannel shirt, and then strong, broad shouldered, rugged man came into view, an axe in one hand. (Seriously prepared)
Now, my husband, at this point in our lives, well okay at every point in our lives, has a 5 o’clock shadow by breakfast, and at this time was driving a 1991 Electra-Glide Sport Harley Davidson motorcycle complete with tattoos, black leather jacket, long hair and attitude. You just don’t mess with him. Especially not in the dark. And certainly not following his young, blond wife home and thinking you’re going to jump out of the car and yell at her. Not happening. Let’s not forget the axe he grabbed on the way out the door unsure what was following me. He was not happy, no not happy at all.
Driver-yuppie jumps out of his car and stalks to my door where he yells at me through the closed window. He's very big, he's very brave. He keeps looking back to his friends in the van.. "see me, see how big and brave I am, see how I can yell at a young girl and make her scared, look at me, look at me". He's so busy yelling and gloating he fails to see Mark.
Mark just walked over to driver-yuppie and, with relative calm, asked him what he thought he was doing. The driver-yuppie, who must not have seen the axe yet, turned and began yelling something about “brights” and “dark” and “driving”, with quick glances over his shoulder at his van for his friends’ support and acting as if Mark is a sane, rational and fellow-yuppie man who totally agrees that women drivers should be outlawed and I totally deserved to be followed by a strange vehicle in the dark and yelled at while my husband joined in.
“and …”, “and…” and the friends aren’t nodding, no, in fact they’re mouths are open and they’re looking a little panicked and they’re pointing and gesturing. About this time he turned back to Mark, sees the axe… and realizes that he is in big trouble. This guy isn't nodding, he's not commiserating, he's not glaring at me... there is that very large, very sharp axe in his hands.
“No”, Mark said, “You are NOT going to yell at her, I don’t care what she did. What you ARE going to do is get your yuppie (%^# back into your *()& van with your *(@%^ friends and get the (*)& out of my yard.”
The guy is back stepping towards the van now, stammering and stuttering “but, but, but” all the way, where the somewhat smarter yuppie friends, having already seen the axe, have locked the doors.
His friends? There is just no way they’re getting out... they’ve seen the movies... you don’t go in the door... you don’t go looking for Johnny… you don’t get out of the car. So now driver yuppie is stuck outside the van being yelled at by a very sinister looking man with an axe in the deep, dark woods by a river 5 miles from the nearest pretense of a town about the poor decision to follow a young girl in the dark and he's not looking that cool or big and brave anymore.
They eventually did let the guy back in and they just about left their tire on the road peeling out of there.
And my hero? He’s my personal knight in shining armor: yes I’ve kept him around and even have 3 more in training, and no, I don’t loan him out. But it’s going to be very interesting around here when Grace gets old enough to date.
Me? I still flash my brights when idiots drivers forget to put the dims on, but only when I know I’ve got Mark around or close enough to run to.
Now, that’s the true story, although I was still safely in the car patiently waiting for Mark to kick their ever-loving !#%)& because it never even occurred to me that he wouldn't take my side or run off the entire carload of yuppies should they have tried, so I may not have heard every word, but you get the jist.
Now, where did I go wrong this weekend? Well, apparently this story was told when I wasn’t around and I was later asked for support as a witness and my response; “yes I flashed my brights, yes they followed me home, yes he had an axe and yes the guy freaked” was decidedly anti-climactic.
Sorry baby, you know you’ll always be my hero and a fine figure of a man. I know you’ve always got my back and you’ll have them stacked 10 deep in the door with your bloody corpse in the doorway before you let them in. I’ll be sure to relate all the bloody, gory details in the future and shine up your armor all nice and pretty.
Enough of the blood and guts though, it’s still birthday weekend and we have all been in a state of sugar-shock with the cakes.
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