Do I Want To See Your What?
I went to the courthouse the other day with my boss to register his latest vehicular purchase. In my department, we kinda take turns going with him over there, not because he needs help, but because he likes the company. And he goes over there often, by the way: the guy owns five cars right now, and turns one over every five to six weeks. Some people say he has problems.
As we were waiting at the counter for his paperwork, a young girl, maybe six or seven years old, approached me and asked me a question. Her voice was so low, I could not understand her, and I asked her to repeat herself. “Do you wanna see…” was all I got the second time. I asked again. And again. “My cheer,” she said, “Do you want to see my cheer?”
I thought about it. While I certainly have no problem watching her perform a cheerleading routine and applauding her talent and effort, I wasn’t quite sure I knew what was going on. I mean, could “cheer” be some new euphamism for body parts that I know nothing about? Does someone in the courthouse think I am a pedophile, and this is all part of some elaborate sting operation to get me? Am I about to be arrested and drug off to jail (which, conveniently, would only be about three hundred yards away)? Or beaten down by her mother as some kind of freak?
I thought about it, and panicked. I said yes, and flinched.
She smiled and backed away, to give herself room to cheer, not to allow the cops to tackle me, and performed her cheer. I applauded her talent and effort, and left quickly.
My boss asked me what that was all about as we left the building. I told him the story, as well as my internal monologue, and he cracked up. “You,” he said, “have too much free time.”
