coolest muthafucka'

he's ridin' that painted pony across a crested butte. gently stoned and trading swipes at a rattlesnake with jim morrisson. he looks down and discovers my trash talkin, 'downer' stories. and he's kinda pissed. who am i to harsh his afterworld gig? we made our peace before he moved on. stiff hugs were exchanged.

so here's a story. about a girl, who, for one afternoon, thinks her dad is the coolest motherfuckin' dude in the universe.

dad loves the soft girliness of his wife, terry. she's slender and honey skinned and smells like almond lotion. she makes him sandwiches just so and he adores her. he wants to get her a real good birthday gift. a trip to z.c.m.i. (think mormon macy's) is in order.

he chooses a deluxe halston set- eau de parfum, lotion, and powder. dad knows he's found the filly something good. add that to a couple hundred cash and the steak dinner he's swinging her way later tonight and it should be a sweet 28th. since it's common knowledge that i can't 'wrap for shit' and, as a man, he is incapable of doing any job requiring the tying of a festive bow, we decide to pop for professional wrapping.

brightly papered gifts hang on the display wall. white on white. floral patterns with raffia. baby pinks and blues. a warm, chunky lady asks which wrap we'd like. my dad gives each sample its due, looks 'em over real good, and makes his choice.

"gimme that bad boy right there, if ya would, #3."

#3. blue background. teddy bears floating high, chubby cub paws holding yellow and pink balloons. puffy pale yellow bow.

she balks. "that's baby paper. you can't put perfume on babies. they'll get allergic."

"perfume's for the old lady. my wife."

she tilts her head, like you might at a rather dim witted dog. "then you don't want baby paper. you want #2, the one with flowers. that's the one for wives or girlfriends. that's real pretty. okay, hun?"

he looks back, mellow, but unswayed. "no thanks. i think those bears are real cute. terry's gonna think so too."

for some reason, this response makes wrapping gal really miffed. as if cats and dogs are suddenly living together in sin. the people behind us in line are beginning to grumble too. and snicker.

"but you can't! it's not done. you don't get BABY paper for a grown woman."

"i'll take good old #3." he slides her a $20 and lights up an unfiltered marlbrough.

she shrieks. "no smoking in here!"

he takes a long drag and on the exhale says- "and woulya change the bow to pink? terry loves pink."

it's one thing to rebel against the straights, the squares, the rubes. to flash 'em the middle finger and a shit eating grin. but this was something all together different. my dad wasn't actively being a jerk, he wasn't trying to piss this woman off, or fly in the face of convention. it wouldn't occur to him that there was a right or wrong way to pick paper. or to be embarrassed by his choice.

he just really liked those damned teddy bears. and god bless him for it.