It’s the little things that mean a lot

By Tiber

As I wrote about in my post “Not in Bruges,” to make a little extra money, Dad rented out a room up here on the third floor of the house to a man from Brussels named Jasper.

He seems like a nice, decent,  kind, quiet and normal sort and I was wondering how long it would be before my family would agree how terrific those qualities were and then shoot them into outer space with a bazooka.

Jasper politely said he wouldn’t be coming down to dinner tonight and when asked why, I thought he panicked because he suddenly blurted out that he’d “…uh…injured my Adam’s Apple…yes, that’s what I did, so I…I really must rest up in my room.”

My first thought was, “who injures their Adam‘s Apple?!? Is that even possible?” But of course, speaking frankly, I’m sure that many people, after spending even an afternoon with us, have tried to strangle themselves and then just made other excuses.

Dad offered to have dinner brought up to Jasper, but he frantically threw up his hands, as if to protect himself and cried out, “Oh, please, dear good and merciful God in Heaven, NO!”

Quickly realizing how that sounded, he tried to courteously cover by adding, “…because, of course,  I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”

I knew then that he was afraid that one of my brother Duncan’s triplets would be dispatched up to his room to deliver the food and he had probably seen them in action during the Easter Egg hunt I wrote about yesterday.

Most children looking for candy, run and toddle and gambol and it’s all pretty cute.

But if Jasper watched the triplets, he saw, first-hand, the ultra-lasers that shot out of their eyes, scorching the earth and anybody else’s nearby hands every time one of them spotted an egg and claimed it as his or her own.

Obviously, I just made that up.

(No, I didn’t please help me).

In any event, Jasper never came down to dinner. Word went around the house that at least he had some food, though. Evidently, he was heard chomping.

You’d think in a place this big, you could at least get a little privacy. But as I’ve said before, it’s also like the home for retired mob informants and the truth is, you can’t even gnaw behind closed doors on a Dorito, without the whole world hearing about it.

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