The Excuse

Seven years into my employment as a Material Planner

at King Radio, the slow clock of eight hours finally hit

5 o’clock and quitting time.

I asked my friend George to join me for a beer after work.

“Pizza Hut is close by, meet you there in five.” George

smiled, “I’m up for that.”

Routinely, my wife, a practical, hard-driving, no-nonsense

woman of German descent expects me home daily at 5:30

sharp every evening. And if I know what’s good for me, I

generally accomdate her schedule. Even a genial phone

call advising her of my meeting with George would not

appease her.

She’ll have dinner on the table at six. I’d better be unwound

from my days work and ready to eat. Today, though, I’ll break

the Golden Rule and have a few brews with George.

Gives us a chance to catch up on our private lives and

discuss our personal goals for the future. We have some

grand plans for someday doing our own thing.

George wants to open a bar; I would love to escape the

commercial world of work and be able to write and

paint. Pie-in-the-sky hopes for the both of us, I know,

but every man needs his dreams, makes an otherwise

boring life seem worthwhile.

After a dose of cloves to soak up and cover the smell

of beer on the breath, I arrive home at 7 o’clock. And

having rubbed my hands over my car tires to give me

that filthy flat tire changing sheen, I entered the house

explaining my tardiness to my angered wife.

“Tire blew out on I-35.” I told her with a frustrated tone.

“I was doing 75, damn near lost control, but somehow

managed to pull over to the side. Couldn’t find the tire

tool so I flagged down a motorist who was kind enough

to stop and help.”

Luckily the wife lightened up and bought my tale of

terror. That’s one excuse I’ll not be able to use again.

And likely it will be another month or so before George

and I would be able to commiserate over beer again.

The wife expects me home at 5: 30 sharp. Determined

German women demand to have their needs met. No

need for me to be starting World War III.

“You’re dinner is cold,” she said sternly. And quietly, I was

reaffirmed, that’s not all.

I washed my hands and sat down at the table. “Pass the

sauerkraut, please.”

                                     -30-

Chris Hanch 6-24-2020