God, My Dad, & the NSA (Part One)

My Dad never answers the phone. NEVER!

     A couple of weeks ago I went to the doctor. My ears have been bothering me for months but, being a man, I waited almost six months before I decided to go see a doctor. My hearing is fine, but it's the voices in my head that are the problem.
     Just joking.
     I don't hear voices, I know it's just my wife and my Dad talking to me, but my inner ears do hurt, I'm not joking about that part.
     (But, since I bring up the subject of voices in people's heads, why don't those voices ever tell those people to get a job?)

     Well, anyway, I went to see the doctor. He ran all kinds of tests, or, rather, he authorized a bunch of tests for others to perform on me (stay in school, kids). He had me hearing sounds. Soft sounds, loud sounds. He had me hearing beeps. High-pitched beeps. Low-pitched beeps. The works. Then he had me take some x-rays. Just what I've always wanted, X-rays penetrating my brain. I guess I can look forward to brain cancer in the future
     After all that, I found myself back with the doctor. He wasn't in the mood to socialize because he had a Waiting Room full of patients to ignore, so he told me that he would call me later in the day. He'd let me know the results of all those tests over the phone, and then we could talk about where we'd go from there.
     I asked him to leave me a message if I wasn't home.
     He said he would.
     I thanked him--because that's just the way I roll--and off I went.

     I got home and waited. And then I waited some more. Ant then I waited even more. I waited until I had to go out. Why I had to go out, I don't know. Where I went, and what I did, I can't remember. I have no idea what it was that was so important that I had to  leave. But I left.
     Unfortunately, my wife was out and about doing what she does best... shopping.
     I say "unfortunately" because she wasn't home to take a message in case the doctor called while I was out doing that very important thing I don't remember.
     I can't say too much about her going out and spending a few dollars, because she's not wasteful. She just likes to shop. Like me, she doesn't drink, smoke, gamble, or have any bad habits. There's one bad habit I wish she had, but that's neither here nor there.
     It's not here, but I wish it were there. In my bedroom. If you get my drift.
     Myself, I can buy hundreds of dollars worth of ammo, and she won't tell me anything. I'm a gun collector (which might be one reason she doesn't tell me anything), and ammo is very expensive. Or I could buy myself another gun. Which I just did. A rifle. I promised my three-year-old grandson that I'd take him dinosaur hunting.
     But that's another story.

     Getting back to my story.

     I get home and find my Dad sitting in his--my-- favorite chair. He's watching TV. Baseball. His usual M.O. As always, all the lights are on in the great room, the kitchen, and his bedroom. Dollar signs fly past me as I open the door to the kitchen and walk in. I've just started making myself a cup of coffee when he calls me over
     "Yeah, Dad?" I ask him.

     "Your doctor called," he tells me.

     I was surprised, because my Dad--in all the time he's lived with us--has never answered the phone. I didn't think he even knew how to answer the phone, or what a phone was. Of course I'm talking about a modern phone. All the buttons confuse him. Heck, he doesn't even know how to use one when my wife hands it to him and tells him someone is already on the line. But...
     ...that's another story.

     "What was that?" I asked him. Maybe I misunderstood.

     "Your doctor called." Nope, I didn't.

     "My doctor called?"

     "Are your ears bothering you? That's what I said."

     "Well, what did he say?"
     "What did who say?"

     "What did the doctor say?"

     "What doctor?"

     "My Doctor."

     "Your doctor? What about your doctor?"
     Shoot! I thought, only I didn't say "shoot."

     "You said that my doctor called while I was out. Well, what did he say?"

     "Oh, yeah... well--hee, hee, hee--the doctor..." Smack, smack, smack! "I think he said you were all right."

     "You think he said that I was all right?"
     "Yeah, that's what I think."
     "What else did he say?"
     "What?"
     "What else did my doctor say?"
     "Who?"
     "My doctor."
     "What about him?"
     "What did he say?"

     "Oh, yeah... it sounded like he said you were all right."
     "You're sure? You're sure he said I was all right?"
     "Or he said it was your right side... or your right shoulder? Your right shoulder is your bad shoulder, isn't it? The one you hurt? He also said some other things, but I can't remember." Blah, blah, blah.

     All I can say is that my Dad never--and I mean never--answered the phone... until that phone call. My phone call. My important phone call.
     Why did he answer it?
     Only God, my Dad, and perhaps the NSA know why.

     I was telling my buddy Maloney about it. That guy's never met a conversation he couldn't make about himself.

     "You think you've got problems?" Maloney told me...
  

   

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