It’s Saturday, my day to take the kids so my wife can have a break.  She deserves it; Pilates, or yoga, or ballet, something to help her open the floodgates of the reservoir of stress she’s built up over the course of the week, and which I will help refill while she’s relaxing.

“You’ll be careful, won’t you?” she says, her forehead creased with parallel lines like the kilts she used to wear as a girl.

“Of course we won’t, sweetie,” I say as I kiss her tenderly.  “Saturdays with dad are for real risk-taking, not the phony-baloney kind the elementary school teachers talk about when all they mean is writing essays about dead pets.”

“All right,” she says, but I can tell she’s not completely mollified.

“I won’t let them do anything I wouldn’t do,” I say.

She snorts.  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

I head out to the car where my two boys–Scooter and Skipper–are already strapped in the back seat, ready to go.

“Yay–Saturday with dad!” says Skipper, the younger at 8 years.

“Can we do something self-destructive, dad?” Scooter, his 10-year-old brother asks.

“Well, sure, Scoots.  But first I want to make sure you eat a balanced breakfast, so you have enough energy to carry you through the day.”

“You mean like the food pyramid in the school cafeteria?” he asks.

“No, I mean a donut and Strawberry Quik.  The kind of good, wholesome food I grew up on, not the naturally-sweetened sawdust mom buys at the natural food store.”

We swing into the donut shop where we have spent some of our most treasured moments, bonding as we soar on a sugar high that Jerry Garcia would die for, if he weren’t already dead.

Smoking is bad for you if it doesn’t get you high.

“So what do you guys want to do today?” I ask as we slurp and chew our purchases.

“I’d like to jump off of something really high!” Skipper says.

“I want to blow something up!” Scooter says.  I have to humor him on this point, because there are laws regarding destruction of other people’s property.  “Maybe later, when we get home,” I say.

He doesn’t take this well.  “But then mom will stop us,” he says, pouting.

“Not if we don’t tell her beforehand,” I say.  “You see, it’s always better, easier–and more fun–to ask for forgiveness than permission.  Understand?”

“You did what?”

He says yes and turns back to his donut.  “C’mon, you can eat in the car,” I say.

We head to a nearby playground with a monster jungle gym that’s really only appropriate for Army Rangers.

“Bet I beat you to the top!” Skipper says and he’s right; he’s an agile little devil and he scrambles up the bars like a monkey on a mission ahead of his big brother.

“I’m king of the world,” he says, as he steadies himself, then prepares to jump.

“Now remember what I’ve told you,” I say with a note of fatherly concern in my voice.

“Right.  I have two legs and only one head, so jump feet first.”

“What happens if you land on your head, dad?” Skipper asks.

“You could be paralyzed.”

“What’s that mean?” Scooter asks.

“Well, most likely you wouldn’t be able to move your legs any more.”

“Gosh,” Skipper asks.  “Do we know anyone who’s paralyzed?”

“Well, sure, Skip.  You know Charles Krauthammer, the man on Fox News mom likes so much?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, he dove into a swimming pool that wasn’t deep enough, hit his head, and now he’s paralyzed.”

“Really?” Scooter says, his eyes as big as saucers.  “Why does mom like him so much?”

“Scoot,” I say thoughtfully.  “When you’re a little older, you’ll understand that mommies like the idea of daddies who don’t have much going on below their belts.”

I keep things cryptic–birds and bees style–because the agreement in our family is that our children will get their sex education only through independent, approved sources, like the third-world kids who received low-cost laptops and promptly put them to use surfing porn sites on the internet.

Skipper’s ready to go, and he rocks back and forth a few times, then flings himself off the jungle gym into my waiting arms.  “There,” I say, “wasn’t that fun even though mom would yell at you for doing it?”

“It was!” Skipper says with excitement.  We continue in this fashion for an hour or so, then Scooter reminds me of my promise to him.

“You said we could blow something up,” he says.

“All right–let’s go to the store.”

We drive over to our local mom-and-pop hardware store, where customer service is still taken seriously, and greet Harvey, the third-generation owner.

“Hey there kiddos!” he says as he gives each of my boys a cavity-inducing lollipop.  “What can I do for you today?”

“We need something small, not too expensive, that we can blow up,” I say.  “Something that will make a gigantic boom but is still legal for us to drive around with.”

“So,” Harvey says thoughtfully, “no nitroglycerine.”

“That’s probably more advanced than the kids are ready for.”

“How about spray paint?” he asks, and I have to admit the suggestion is a good one.

“You know, I used to love blowing up cans of spray paint when I was a kid,” I say, waxing nostalgic.

“You can hold one of these babies in your hand, toss it into a fire, run like heck, and it’s totally safe.”

“You’re sure about that?” I ask.  “It’s been a long time.  There might be new risks I’m not aware of.”

“See for yourself,” Harvey says as he hands me a can of candy apple blue sparkly paint.  I take my glasses off and begin to read the label.  “CAUTION,” it says in big bold letters.  “HIGHLY INFLAMMABLE.”

“What’s that mean?” Scooter asks.

“Well, ‘flammable’ means it could burst into flames, and ‘in’ means ‘not’–right?”

“So it’s safe?” Scooter asks.

“Sounds like it.  Let me read the rest of it.”

I scan the label carefully and when I’m done, report my conclusions.  “Nope.  It says nothing about throwing it into a freestanding Mexican front-loading fireplace or oven with a bulbous body and usually a vertical smoke vent or chimney.  Must be okay.”

We pay–a little more than we would down the street at Home Depot, but the personal attention we received was worth it.  Once we get home, I take some cardboard and newspaper and put it into our chiminea.  I light the fire, wait until it’s blazing, then turn to the boys for final instructions.

Bombs away!

“Okay,” I say to them.  “Scooter, you get to throw the can since it was your idea.  You both have to be ready to run.  All set?”

They nod, serious expressions on their faces as my tone has conveyed the gravity of the situation to them.

“Okay.  On your mark–get set–go!”

Scooter executes a perfect underhanded toss into the fiery pit, and we’re halfway across the yard when the can explodes with a boom like a jet breaking the sound barrier.  We turn to watch the chiminea shatter into a thousand pieces just as my wife returns, looking relaxed, refreshed, and ready to deal with the anarchy that a man and his boys are capable of loosing upon a quiet and peaceful home.

“What was that noise I heard as I drove up?” she asks.

The boys are silent, and look at each other with guilty expressions on their faces.  I’ve taught the kids that honesty is not just the best policy, it’s the only policy.  I’ve told them it’s something you have to do if you want to go to heaven.  If that place doesn’t appeal to you, well then, yeah, you have other options.

“Mom,” Scooter says, his head downcast, a note of seriousness in his voice that is belied by the SpongeBob SquarePants sneakers he’s wearing.  “It was me.”

She frowns at him, clearly unhappy.  “What could you possibly do to make so much noise?” she asks.

“I cut a great big fart.”

Available in Kindle format on amazon.com as part of the collection “Kids: They’re Cute When They’re Young.”

It’s 5 p.m., and I’m trying to decide whether to run for the 5:15 train or hang in until the 5:30 and squeeze in another three-tenths of a billable hour.  I’m leaning towards the 220-yard dash to the station when my phone rings.

“Hullo,” I say and it would take more amour propre than I’ve got to say that I sounded cheery.

I wait for a response, but at the other end of the line there is merely dim background noise, as if from a restaurant; glasses clinking, people chatting in the distance, faint music.

“Hello,” I say again, but then I realize what’s happened.  My partner Jeremy is out on the town, trying to find media & entertainment clients whose work he will hand off to me.  He’s put his phone in his back pocket and “butt-dialed” me–for the third time this week.  We’re a team, a Mr. Inside and a Mr. Outside, like Davis and Blanchard of Army football fame in the 40s.  He has a good time, I’m the miserable scrivener.

Glenn Davis, Mr. Outside, and Doc Blanchard, Mr. Inside

“HELLO!” I say louder than before, hoping he’ll hear me.

“Hello?” a tinny metallic voice replies.

“Who’s this?”

“Jeremy’s phone.  Well, at least one of them.”

Great.  Some people get Jeremy’s assistant, some get his assistant’s go-fer.  Me?  I get a hunk of metal and plastic.

“Does he know he butt-dialed me again?”

“Un–the essence of butt-dialing is you don’t know you did it.”

The little guy’s got me there.  “So where are you?”

“The Swan,” he says, referring to a faux gentleman’s club-decor restaurant that sprang, as in Greek mythology, out of the forearm of an upscale shopping mall last year, looking 100 years old on the day of its birth.

“Nice.  Any . . . celebrities in sight?”

“The usual,” he says, casting implicit scorn on Boston’s B–or is it C-list?–scene.  “There’s a TV weatherman who’s trying to impress a hot babe at the bar with the ten-day extended forecast.”

“I know that’s a real turn-on for some women.”

“There’s an aging musician whose job is to hang with real rockers when they come to Beantown on tour.”

“You don’t have to mention his name.  Anybody else?”

“A screenwriter with one big hit and nothing but flops since.  Hold on, I’m going to lose you.”

The phone goes silent.  Ten, twenty seconds pass.  I’m about to hang up when I hear “You still there?”

“Yep–what happened?  I don’t recall any tunnels in that restaurant.”

“He sat down for a second, then he saw somebody he wants to hock for business.”

“God bless him.”

So peaceful!

“I don’t know how he does it,” Mr. Phone says.  “Me–I’d like to be in my cradle recharging right now.”

“And I’d like to be home.  Does it look like he’s going to score any work tonight?”

“Uh . . . I don’t know.  He’s talking to an aspiring actress right now.”

“Good luck with that.  You can’t make a living doing ten-minute play contests in Boston.”

“You would know.”

“Hey!”

“The truth hurts.  Wait–I spoke too soon,” Phone Guy says.  “He’s got a fish nibbling at the bait.”

“Who is it?”

“Somebody who knows somebody who invested in a Boston movie and now is living in a mansion that has its own zip code.”

“There’s a sucker born every minute,” I say.  I’m shaking my head, but he can’t see me.

“You know, P.T. Barnum didn’t say that.  It was David Hannum–a banker fer Christ sake.”

David Hannum

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Like what a quadratic equation is?” comes the riposte.

Touche.  If I’d paid attention in high school math class I wouldn’t have ended up in law school.  “So–does it look like he’s going to close the deal?” I ask, getting back to business.

“I can’t tell.  He’s getting out his card . . .”

“Crap.”

“He’s doing the ‘touch’ thing on the arm.”

“That’s usually a clincher.”

“Here comes his hand.  Looks like he’s going to call you intentionally this time.”

“Okay–thanks for the head’s up.”

“Nice talking to you.”

“You too,” I say before the phone goes dead.  Five seconds later–Jeremy’s got me on speed dial–it rings again.

“Hi Jeremy.”

“How’d you know it was me?”

“I’ve got a platinum membership for Dionne Warwick’s Psychic Friends Hotline.”

“Heh,” he says.  He does this when you say something he perceives is intended as humor.  He likes to conserve his real laughs for clients and prospects.  “Say–have you got time to write up a deal memo for me?”

“Can you fax me the napkin you wrote it on?”

“Heh.”  See what I mean.

“Seriously, Jeremy.  I was just about to leave.  Working with you is like going to the Clark Gable School of Law.”

“What do you mean?”

“Since you only watch new Hollywood releases, you wouldn’t know.  Clark Gable is a land speculator in an old western, and he negotiates late into the night.  When he finally gets the other side to agree, everybody shakes hands and Gable says ‘Excellent gentlemen.  I’ll call my lawyer and the papers will be ready in the morning.’”

“Heh.  So anyway the deal is . . .”

“Jeremy . . . I’ve gotta go.  Unlike you, the clinking cocktail glass scene isn’t for me.  I need to be in bed by ten.”

“Right after Rin-Tin-Tin, right.”

“Right.  Although when I was a little older mom let me watch The Fugitive.”

“This won’t take you long–you’re good at this stuff.”  Jeremy doesn’t read novels, but he’s got the Tom Sawyer thing down pat.

“I tell you what,” I say.  “Send me a text message with the high points.  I’ll draw something up for you when I get home.  You don’t want me drafting million dollar deals when my blood sugar’s low.”

“Okay,” he says.  Texting’s okay, since it makes him look like he’s doing something more important than whatever’s happening right in front of him.  Distant–blase–Stevie Wonder’s “Mr. Know-it-All.”

“Great.  Say–if you wouldn’t mind, could you turn off your phone when you put it in your pocket?”

“Why?”

“I’m going to try and take a cat-nap on the train.  You’ve been butt-dialing me all week.”

“Oh man.  I am so sorry.”

I can’t believe it.  For once in his life, Jeremy actually shows some sympathy for another human being who isn’t paying for it.  Me–the Bob Cratchit to his Scrooge!  Maybe–naw, it’s June, so it’s not Christmas.

“Thanks,” I say, feeling a lump begin to form in my throat.  “I . . . I appreciate it, Jeremy.”

“What?” he says, bemused.  “I’m not sorry for you.”

“You’re not?”

“No–I’m sorry I accidentally burned so many of my monthly minutes.”

The kids are into baseball now, a development that warms this old good field-no hit third baseman’s heart, so we were watching the Red Sox lose to Tampa Bay last night after bath time.

Jon Lester

“Lester isn’t exactly mowing ‘em down,” said Scooter, the older of the two boys at twelve, about cancer-beating lefthander Jon Lester.

“He’s been in a slump,” I said.  “His hair was really on fire at the beginning of the season.”

“It was?” asked Scooter.  He’s very literal-minded–may have been switched in the nursery.

“Not really, that’s just an expression that Bill ‘Spaceman’ Lee used to use,” I said, alerting him to the possibility of hidden meanings in the things we say.

“What does it mean?” Skipper asked.

“That he was doing a good job,” I said.

“Then why didn’t you just say that?”

“I chose Sara Teasdale and sleeping pills!”

“Well, just like your brother said he was ‘mowing them down,’” I replied.  “He used an image of cutting grass to paint a picture in your mind of how easy it was.”

“Oh,” Skip said, although I wasn’t sure he understood.  His English teacher at Sylvia Plath Middle School must not have covered similes and metaphor.  Too busy helping the kids with their suicidal poetess dioramas.

“Has your hair ever caught fire?” Skipper asked.  I guess he just didn’t get it, so I decided to answer him literally.

“Why yes, Skip–as a matter of fact it did one time.”

“It did?” Scooter asked, astounded that the careful, cautious old man who tucked him in bed every night had so many narrow escapes from death as a boy.  “How’d that happen?”

“Well, in the mid-sixties I was working at mid-Missouri’s only barbecue restaurant owned by a gay man.”

“What’s a gay man?” Skipper asked.  His Human Sexuality Course had been cancelled after a guest speaker taught the kids how to put a condom on a zucchini.

“Skip, a gay man is a man who likes other men instead of mommies, okay?  Nothing wrong with that.”

He seemed puzzled, so I drove the point home a little further.  “‘Different strokes for different folks’–who said that?”

“Abraham Lincoln!” Scooter answered.  Always a good guess around our place, with a registered member of Da Party of Lincoln in da house.

“Umm, no.  Guess again.”

“No.  Skip?  Who do you think?”

“George Washington?”

“Nope, you’re both wrong.  It was another great American, Sly Stone.  Anyway, what it means is we’re all different, sometimes in very similar ways.”

“So, he made gay barbecue?” Scooter asked.

“It was asexual, like the amoebas you learned about in science class last year. He got the restaurant from his wife, who inherited it from her dad. When they divorced, she got their home and he got the restaurant.”

“Did he live in the restaurant?” Skipper asked.

“Pretty much.  He had a trailer out the back.  Anyway, he didn’t like barbecue–he thought it was for po’ white trash, so he tried to spruce the place up a bit, make it into a fancy restaurant.”

“I don’t like fancy restaurants,” Scooter said with disgust.

Happy stock photo family assembles for fake Mother’s Day portrait.

“Me neither, buddy, but sometimes you have to take mommies out to them so they know you love them enough to blow a lot of money on an overpriced meal and obsequious service.  Anyway, the owner tried to get the customers to use finger bowls . . .”

“What’s that?” Skipper asked.

“A little bowl with warm water in it to clean your fingers after you’ve had something messy like barbecue.”

“What happened?”

“A lot of people thought it was soup.  They complained it tasted like warm water.”

“And that was it?”

“No, he tried to vary the menu too.  He introduced lobster, and Italian dishes, and–his triumph–flaming shish kabobs.”

“What’s that?” Scooter asked.

“Meat and vegetables on a big sword that you set on fire.”

“Cool!”

“I’ll say.  Second only to Baked Alaska in terms of cheap, meretricious dining spectacle.”

“So did you stick your hair in the shish kabob?”

“Not really, but close.  I was serving three of the flaming swords one night, carrying the tray in one hand and a tray stand in the other.”

“What happened?” Skip asked.

“I leaned over to set up the tray stand, and the plates with the flaming swords started sliding towards my head.”

“And did your hair really catch on fire?”

“Not totally, but it got singed and I dropped all the plates on the floor.”

“Did the owner yell at you?”

“No, he came out and apologized to everybody while I was picking up the meat and vegetables and swords.  He said ‘The boy’s hair was singed, but I’ll have some more shish kabobs ready for you in just a minute.’”

“So did he have more shish kabobs cooking?”

“Nope.  He took the ones I spilled back to the room where we washed the dishes, hosed them down, threw them back on the fire, put some new parsley on the plates–and served them!”

“Is that okay?” Skipper asked nervously.  He’s always got a runny nose because he has no resistance to germs, thanks to his mother’s fanatic devotion to an unattainable ideal of cleanliness.

“Sure it’s okay.  As long as you pick it up within ten minutes, and no carrion bird has tried to eat it and no insect has laid eggs in it–you’re good to go.”

I noticed a new stillness in their demeanor and sensed that their mother had appeared in the doorway to announce that quality male-bonding time watching televised sports with dad was over.

“C’mon you two,” she said.  “Up we go.”

“Mom, did you know if you set food on fire and drop it on the floor you can still eat it if you run it through a dishwasher and put some parsley on it?” Skipper asked, his little face a picture of satisfaction that there was a time-tested, hygienic basis to his personal culinary preferences.

“No I didn’t,” she said as she looked askance at me.  “Your father tells you the strangest fairy tales.”