Demon Cane - Bastard Cousin Of The Bungee Cord

*** continued from previous post ***


Stacy, today wearing pink tights to accompany her pigtails and an adorable summer dress, came over and patted your mom on the shoulder. "Well you guys look a little more rested today. How are you doing?"

"Much better, thank you," Mom said.

I nodded my head in agreement.

"What can I get you folks to drink? Tea? Coffee? A nice glass of Okanagan Merlot?"

"I think some tea would be wonderful." Mom reached over and patted my arm. "What about you sweetie?"

"Coffee for me please, Stacy."

"You got it folks."

She pointed over to the same side-board where the box-lunch spread, or, as I now refer to it, "Meat-a-palooza", was earlier this morning.

"Help yourself. Our Teas are quite good. People coordinate their hikes so that they reach us by early afternoon simply for our Teas. And be sure to try the pastries." She opened her eyes wide, "Yum!"

"Thank you," Mom said, “I think I will.”

"I'll be right back. In the meantime there's a good selection of games in the library. You're more than welcome to grab one and bring it in here, or one of our books." She turned to walk to the kitchen, and with a glance over her shoulder added, "Glad you guys got some 'rest'." Then she winked again.

Dammit! I hope no one else saw me blushing. In my fluster I knocked my cane to the ground with a mighty BANG! causing a dead-stop in the room’s chatter and heads to snap in our direction.
"Sorry," I said to the room, and held my cane up so they could see I had simply dropped it and was not, as some suspected, shootin' the place up.

See, here is the damned thing about walking apparatus - canes, crutches, whatever - it's all good and fine when you're up walking about, but the minute you sit down you realize, ‘What the hell am I going to do with this stick?’ I know it sounds trivial, but you have no idea how complicated of a matter this really is. Do you put it on the floor and risk someone tripping? Hold it and there by render one of your appendages useless? Lean it against the table and risk, as I had just done, a noisy clang to the floor? I once asked your mom to affix Velcro to the shaft, so that I could wear the corresponding piece of Velcro on my head in a band, thereby sticking the damn thing to the side of my face where it would be out of the way. Your Mother, ever the party pooper, spent quite a while explaining to me why this would be ridiculous. I was buying none of her reasoning until she said, "Would you like to be called old cane-head?" I think you'll agree that, while I've been called many things in my life, 'Old cane head' is not one to which I aspire.

"You know, I've got to figure out something to do with this thing. It's always in the way."
"Why don't you bring your strap and fold it up? You could hold it on your lap?"

Immediately a sequence of images flooded my brain like the backed-up toilet at your prom date's house. A series where the cane, demon possessed - for this foldable metal stick is really the bastard cousin of the bungee cord, (and you know how well I get along with those) - would break free its minimal bindings, and do bodily injury to myself in a thousand and one ways. 800 of them involving my nether regions. 150 or so resulting in permanent blindness. 25 with a broken nose or shattered teeth. 15 concerning a crushed or heavily bruised larynx. 8 resulting in decapitation. 2 in spontaneous combustion. And 1 wherein I won the lottery and bought a large yacht where I cruised the world taunting indigenous wildlife with native fruit and pithy insults from the safety of my boat. (To be fair I may have drifted off towards the end of this fantasy for as you know my attention span is. . . .oh look! Shiny!)

*** the journey continues ***