C. W. was waiting for me when I arose this morning. At least let’s say Arnold Awesome was waiting for me. In this shape, C.W. is an eighteen years old boy that’s full of wonder and admiration for all things earthly. He can be inspiring at times, but tedious at others. Somehow he had found an old tie-dyed slipover and some bell-bottom pants in the attic. Of course I have no idea from where they came.
“Awesome,’’ he said. “Did you see the sunrise this morning?”
“I’ve asked you not to use that word,” I said, “it’s the most overused word in our country these days and has totally lost its meaning.”
“Like, it was really cool,” he said.
“And don’t insert the word ‘like’ in a sentence when it isn’t necessary to convey an image or idea.”
“Like,” he said, “when you say ‘far out’ for no apparent reason?”
“That’s different,” I said.
I thought. “It just is.”
“Why are you up so early? Just to catch the sunrise?”
“How do you ‘catch’ a sunrise? Wouldn’t that burn your hands?”
“Just a figure of speech,” I said.
“How can speech have a figure? Women have figures and accountants figure and you are always figuring to do something for Mrs. Big Dope and then you don’t. I can’t figure your language out at times.”
I ignored him. “So what else have you been doing?”
“Remember when we went to that rock concert? The awesome one,” he said. It was obvious he was being evasive.
“Have you been on my wife’s computer again?”
“You changed the password on yours.”
“Just a little bit,” he said, “I was waiting for the sun to rise and, like, got bored.”
“You weren’t back on those …”
“Oh no,” he said, rubbing the side of his head in an unconscious gesture. “She explained about that. I was just watching, uh, the news, that’s it,” he said. “The news.”
“And what was on the news?”
He thought. “Football scores?”
“Is that a question for me?”
“There is this guy who may be elected as your president who has no qualifications whatsoever. They had posts of these news reporters talking about what a great job he would do because he would, like, bring a fresh face to politics through his ineptitude and ignorance.”
“Those weren’t news reporters,” I said.
“They claimed to be. They even called it a news channel where they report and we decide.”
He cocked his head. “Whatever what?”
“Just whatever,” I said. “It’s a figure of speech.”
“There you, like, go again,” he said. He shifted gears. “Hey,” he said, “have you ever listened to those old songs that were popular when you were a child? You know, Bessie Smith and such?”
“I wasn’t a child when Bessie Smith was alive,” I said. “But yes, I have heard her music.”
“Gimme me a pig foot and a bottle of beer,” he said. “That’s awesome.”
“Wait,” he said. “There’s a better one … my sportin’ man … his barrel’s hot … he rams his ramrod in …”
“Hush,” I said, “you’re going to wake my wife.”
“I think I heard her,” he said. “She’s already up.” He stopped and turned white. “Uh oh,” he said.
“You didn’t,” I said.
“Maybe,” he said. “I was listening to one when the sun started to come up.”
“And what were you listening to?”
“It was a song about your capitalistic system of finance.”
“Oh,” I said. I relaxed. “What was the name of that song?”
“I think,” he said, “it was called ‘You Can’t Git That StuffNo More.’”
“Oh no,” I said. I started to get up
Too late. A voice erupted from the next room. “Get in here right now.”
“I think she means you,” C.W. said and nodded in the direction of the voice. “Better see what she wants.”
“I’ll be back,” I said and started toward the door.
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