... little help, please.

So, after the recent passing in the family, my brother contacted me, asking if I would be willing to “help out” while he and his wife were in North Carolina at the… eh, you shouldn’t say festivities, but everyone seemed to think that it was a pseudo-happy time for a generally very happy man.

Side note: Some people say that they hope people won’t mourn them at their funeral, or that their friends will treat their funeral as a “celebration of life.” I halfway think some of these people are about as sharp as Tom Cruise on an overdose of Paxil. Some of them may be right. Not to elicit comments, but I’m curious about your thoughts on the matter.

Personally, I am hoping for a funeral which will take the place of my wedding festivities. Specifically, I think my survivors should name “Best People” (as in “Best Man”) and “Worst People,” as in… um… well… nothing comes to mind. The best people would be people that liked me. The worst people would be those… you know. I also envision a rehearsal, and thusly a rehearsal dinner. I think this would be a great time for the best people and worst people to have awkward moments (ie – Best Person eulogy statement in rehearsal: “Brett truly was a great man.” Worst People in unison: “Pfffffft!” That was for you, Dwight.). Then the best people and worst people would be forced to eat dinner together. Then they would go drink together, and find out that they “really aren’t all that different.” Then all those old friends and enemies of me would hook up, and wake the next morning in a local hotel, realizing that they were all frankly ambivalent about me all along. Then they’ll all say, “Brett? Sure, he was ok.” No one will be worse for the wear, and everyone will have a new “buddy.”

Due to the final installment of my grant drury doody, I told the fam that I would be unable to be around in the morning on Wednesday. My brother said that they “had it all taken care of.”

Just as I had gotten comfortable, thinking I wouldn’t be needed, I got a call from my dad. He said he needed me to “help out with the boys,” referring to my brother’s boys, who are 2 and 4.25. Being - not “the,” but - “a” good son. I graciously agreed.

What I found when I arrived at the prescribed place and time, was that I, in fact, was not needed to watch the boys (for the record, this doesn’t bother me… baptism by fire in the techniques of dealing with infant poop and company was not something I was “itching” to experience). I was needed to be the subservient worker to a seventeen-year-old gentleman that my family has hired to assist in their golf cart business.

So, Wednesday, I headed to the shop. I “worked” all day, and learned how to modify golf carts from “course models” to “I don’t feel like walking 30 yards and I have a kick-ass Barbie golf cart to prove it and rub your poverty in your face” models.

In a “thank you sir, may I have another” moment, I agreed to return today. This time I took the Gunner with me. Here are a few stats:

Number of socket wrenches dropped on a part of my body: 3
Number of socket wrenches dropped on a part of my body by me: 1
Number of times I began to utter the phrase “What the f&*k?” and realized I was with my parents, Protestantly changing the phrase to “What the Fu….nkle Ester?”: 5
Frequency of the shop radio station the entire time I was working: 106.7
Number of times I recognized an old country song on said frequency and wondered aloud what ever happened to the artist behind it: approximately 30
Number of times any sort of bodily reaction – a “hmm?”, a “dunno”, an eyebrow raise, a shrugged shoulder, or an involuntary fart – was executed in response to my question: -0
Size of typical socket as uttered by rather backwoods seventeen-year-old worker: Fourtain Millamaturs
Number of “Yoo-haa’s” consumed by my oldest nephew while at the shop over the course of two days: 1.5 – that is 3, all half-consumed.
Number of cigarettes not smoked over the entire period of time there: ∞
Number of vehicles, to be used for moving, now in my possession as a result of said interaction (and Gunner’s help): 2
Portion of my average monthly UGA paycheck earned in 12 hours at the shop: 1/8

I exaggerate… a little bit, but not much. We actually had quite a good time, and I now have a second fall-back if the writing thing doesn’t work out.

Right!

Write.