SNIPER

Today is my Dad's 59th birthday. Last night I was reminiscing about my favorite memories of the old man- creating sort of a top ten list. The following memory wasn't number one on the list, but it is one of my favorite stories to tell:



I have a deep fear of mice. The term "phobic," underemphasizes how crippled I become in the presence of a mouse. Oddly, this fear doesn't hit me in pet stores, psychological labratories, or with people's pet mice (although, let's be honest, if you have a pet mouse I am probably not your friend) But that's not the point. The point is that if a wild mouse finds his greasy little way into my home- I experience overwhelming functional impairment. I experience paralyzing anxiety.



So there is the context for the tale of the sniper. This one time we had a mouse in our house and after several days of empty traps and undisturbed boxes of poison I was pretty much at my breaking point. We had to go out to eat for dinner because I was so freaked out I couldn't even eat at home. (Note: to those of you who are tempted to say something clever about someone as large as me being afraid of something as small as a mouse: eat my shorts. Clearly, your understanding of psychopathology is as limited and tiny as your pathetic worldview.)



Frantic, I called my old man. He was well aware of my state of distress and so he did what any caring father would: he volunteered to come over armed with his BB gun and shoot the mouse. I assumed he was trying to lighten the mood. Having witnessed firsthand the nimble nightmare that is a wild mouse, I fostered grave doubts about the incongruence between his plan and reality. He had to be kidding, right? I gave him a nervous chuckle and attempted to move on to so good old fashioned whimpering and whining about my state of distress. But he persisted! He was actually serious about this.



I told him, "Dad, you can't be serious. I don't want you lodging BB's in the walls of my house." And what he said next frames what would become one of his crowning achievements. His personal piece de resistance. Calmly, he stated: "relax...I'm a Vietnam Veteran."



How could I argue? And so it was that "the sniper" gathered his rifle and departed. Bravely, he collected his munitions and supplies and trudged willingly back into battle. Meanwhile, in the shadowy depths of the Carl's Junior playground, I sat trembling.



To be continued...