I recently attended a wedding at the circus. I mean a circus-themed wedding, not an “under the big top” wedding, although there was a fair amount of fanciful antics and enough antics that one might have a hard time telling the difference between the two.
Near the entrance to the tent was a table laden with circus curiosities presented as gifts for guests to enjoy. One could enthusiastically snatch up a Dudley Do-Right adhesive mustache or enjoy the taste of a pure spun sugar candy. Or perhaps the more pragmatic guest (with December right around the corner) could choose one of the red foam noses, making it doubly useful for Christmas. But for me, it seemed like a risky temptation of fate to choose the mustache, since I had recently seen small hairs sprouting from my upper lip where there were none before. And, while I’m easily tempted by sweets, I’ll admit to being a bit of a snob in believing that consuming it from a prepackaged bucket robbed it of all the deliciousness of its fluffy purpose and gooey intentions. My lack of pragmatism (but to my credit, my knowledge of that lack) kept me from the red foam nose as I would never be able to locate it in its time of need. It would surely reappear behind a dresser or under a stack of books one day during a cleaning spree, probably around Easter, so it would be a moot point on the tip of my nose.
I was about to exercise my freedom not to choose, which is out of character for me since I love gifts, when I noticed something magically appeared on the third of the three ring centerpiece. Tiny, lifelike human hands, each perched on a straw, were placed in a vase to imitate a tiny bouquet of beige daffodils. There was a devilish beauty about them, and I was instantly amused. Without thinking or hesitating, I pulled out one of their previous arrangement and chose the finger puppet of a tiny human hand to accompany me throughout the evening.
The little hand and I are not parting anytime soon. In the weeks that followed, I would often roll down my shirtsleeve and place the small hand on my finger to allow the real, doll-sized version to do my bidding. I high-fived the energetic guys from the store who loaded up my trunk. To ease the monotony of bored waiters and waitresses, I slap it against my cheek at restaurants as if trying to make a tough menu choice. I sat in my car at stoplights and rubbed my chin with my little hand, giving fellow drivers the glimpse of someone pondering the universe, telling them a fun story to share across the dinner table or between office cubicles . All these little acts seemed to bring humor in some small way. And to think I had a hand in it.
I grew quite fond of the Lilliputian limb and its meaty rubbery fingers, each the size of a matchstick; so much so, in fact, that I carried it with me in my bag, like a little phalangeal talisman. Then one day I saw an opportunity to use my little hand to bond with my teenage son. He and I were in the car together running errands, albeit somewhat grudgingly on his part, and I could tell by the impatient fidgeting and dwindling conversation that he was getting winded with the fatigue of the process. Young people today have no resistance against the waves of boredom that incessantly batter the shores of everyday life, so I acted quickly and made a hasty decision, as I do so many, robust with good intentions and a complete lack of foresight. I didn’t spend a moment considering how this action would be perceived. I was getting naughty.
I pulled into the shortcut lane of his favorite fast food place, and he sat down with the excited expression of a dog listening to Kibbles drop into a bowl. We placed our order and I opened my bag to retrieve my credit card. There was the tiny hand, greeting me with a friendly hello. Even small gestures deserve recognition.
I rolled down my sleeve, placed the miniature meaty hand, puppet-style, on my index finger and slipped my credit card between its rubber ridges. My son stared at me and, with adolescent economy of words, he simply said, “uh-uh, no way.” I took this to mean do it! I know the language of adolescents. To the hiss of the car window opening, I reached out to the unsuspecting clerk who was simultaneously reaching through his window to get my payment. He shuddered and reflexively withdrew, but after a brief pause, he saw the humor in my tiny hand, now peeking out of the end of my covered fist, and proceeded to extract my credit card from its tiny hilt.
His resulting laugh grew exponentially to what one in this medium could only define as “plus size,” and the mortification mixed with fascination emanating from my son was as satisfying as comedian applause. Comedy does not have to be a market produced and consumed solely by young people; we old people can be wickedly capricious.
The clerk, still captivated by the nonsense, handed the card back to me, taking great care to insert it between the supple fingers of the tiny hand. As he delivered our fried food, he announced that laughter was worth more than food and therefore it would be “On Me” which I mistook for the joke, not the food. I left with a little hello, a thumbnail greeting, and a polite “Thank you.”
As I walked away, my son looked at the receipt and announced, “Damn Dang…it was free, seriously!” to indicate that our food had, in fact, been issued free of charge. I was surprised, flattered, and touched that my whimsical act had brought me such overwhelming happiness, twice, as I watched my teenage son devour a dozen chicken nuggets, empty a carton of French fries, and empty the entire wad with a liter of soda So who says you can’t feed a family with laughter? Talk about a happy meal.
Moments later in an office supply store, searching for the perfect fineliner, the previous act of kindness and generosity by the fast food clerk still hung in the air, like the aura of a perfume. I could not shake off this happy mist in my midst, nor did I try; I wallowed in it. However, it won’t be fully experienced (even after getting the perfect fine point marker) until it’s fully recognized. This act of kindness required retaliation of the most intelligent kind.
Fat and happy, my teenage son wanted to come home at this height of the day, but I pushed him over the edge by saying, “Wait, there’s more” and he slumped back in the seat. “We need gas… fuel, gasoline” to which there is no response. I pulled into the station and parked, not near the pump, but near the gate. He made no move to release his seatbelt, indicating his intention to wait in the car. Once again, I used my motherly lube to free him of his own stubbornness. “I’ll give you an ice cream, big baby.” He gets out of the car and, as he’s been taught to do, holds the door as we walk into the store together.
As the friendly young cashier collected the ice cream, I asked her for the one and only item I came for. “What kind of lottery ticket would you like?” was all she said to herself, before a barrage of questions and recommendations shot out from the crowd of helpful strangers in the store. She naively did not know that this request would come with options or generate such assistance. “I want a random one for the next billionaire thingy.” And then I added, “Wait. I need two.” I turned to the ice cream eater and said, “One will be for us.”
Going back to the fast food joint and past the squawk box, I went to the window. The same employee was still there. He pushed the window open, looking confused, since he hadn’t made any requests. This time he saw a lottery ticket folded in the tiny hand and nestled neatly between the meaty digits. “This is for you,” I told him. He took the bill and looked at it with a mixture of surprise and confusion. I continued, “It’s the Lucky for Life ticket. The drawing is tonight at eleven. What you did earlier was very generous and now I’m paying it forward, and well, backwards too, I guess. I hope you win a billion dollars.” “. and when you do, I hope you do a lot of good things for a lot of people. Have a great day.” I peeled away, leaving his plastic name tag on his shirt still unread.
The silence in the car lasted three stoplights before my teenage son spoke: “If we win, I get half, right?” he asked, between licks.
I slap the tiny hand on my wrinkled forehead, “Eureka!” I told my son, who was busy pushing the ice cream down his cake hole. “Even better than that,” I said, “I’ll double your investment, which is… oh, wait… you didn’t invest, so-nothing. You’ll get, nothing.” I burst out laughing, and though he tried very hard to appear nonchalant, I saw the invisible smile on his face.
She shook her head and muttered through the mash in her mouth, “That was great, Mom. I wish I could have gotten it on Snapchat.”
The next day the newspaper headline read: FAST FOOD WORKER WINS LOTTERY. The story that followed: An anonymous old lady with small hands donates a lottery ticket to a fast food worker who wins THE BIG one. Mr. Lucas Petitemain, in honor of his wounded warrior brother, plans to establish a foundation to provide bionic limbs to those in need.
Well, at least it’s beautiful to think about… that, that could have been.