Leave ‘em laughing

I make jokes a lot. Some of them are pretty lame, I know, but then again they can’t all be gems.
Some people think I don’t take anything seriously. Other people think I take anything that isn’t nailed down. Neither of these impressions is quite true.
While I do tend to try to see the humor in just about every situation, I am well aware that there are some people and things that really shouldn’t be joked about. Some subjects are legitimately taboo where humor is concerned, and some people just don’t have a sense of humor.
As far as the “taking anything that isn’t nailed down” thing is concerned, this is a non-starter. It simply doesn’t apply to me. Not only am I, fundamentally, an honest person, I don’t know any good fences any more so I wouldn’t have anywhere to get rid of the goods. Besides, I both own and know how to operate a claw hammer, so nailing it down wouldn’t keep me from taking anything if I really wanted to.
These musings come about as a result of a chance meeting. Last week, while making a contribution to the Aid to Oil Company Executives Fund (I was buying gasoline), I glanced up from replacing the gas cap on my car and who should be standing there but one of my old college fraternity brothers.
We were both stunned. We hadn’t seen one another in over a quarter of a century. Turns out he is now a regional sales manager for a large chemical company.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
With my customary wit and insight, I replied, “I live here.”
It is, I suppose, eloquent testimony both to the reputation I had as a young man and to the degree to which I have changed, that he didn’t believe me.
Preceding his next statement with a passing reference to organic fertilizer of bovine origins, he said, “I know you and I know the people in rural Arkansas. You couldn’t live in a town this size for more than a week without getting lynched in the courthouse square.” I thought about pointing out that Hazen doesn’t have a courthouse, but I decided to let it slide.
I tried to convince him that I was a changed man, that I was now a responsible member of the community, a devoted husband, father and grandfather. He didn’t believe that, either, even after I whipped out the pictures of my grandchildren.
“Those probably came with the billfold,” he said of the photographs.
I asked him why he was so sure I couldn’t live in a small town. He responded, “Because you’re rude, crude, potentially dangerous and about as ‘responsible’ as a six-year-old in a candy store.” He proceeded to recall several tales of my youthful exploits which have, apparently, become folklore among succeeding generations of our fraternity brothers.
When the time came for him to resume his journey, he was still unconvinced as to the alteration in my deportment. He honestly believed that my sincere attempts to convince him that I had changed were all a joke.
I found this disturbing. Maybe this was what all those authority figures meant when they said things were going on my “permanent record.” Maybe those first impressions, no matter how mistaken they ultimately become, really do last.
When we parted company, my frat brother and I exchanged addresses and phone numbers.
I promptly lost his.
Okay, so maybe he wasn’t entirely mistaken.