Whose Got Your Back?

My doctor’s eyebrows nearly went into orbit. I’d asked him to look at a mole on my back. After the reentry he said, “It’s nothing to be overly concerned with, but I think we should get it looked at soon. It might be one of those nasty ones.”
He didn’t know the half of it.

Since its appearance, I’d had nothing but grief. This mole possessed a nonstop bad attitude and evidently, I was the only one who could hear his ranting. I feared eventually someone else would hear him, think it was me, and then feed me a knuckle sandwich.

When it itched, I'd scratch and he’d get royally chafed. “Hey-Hey-HEY! Do I try to rip your scalp off with dirty fingernails? If I was a little bigger, Willard, I'd kick your butt!"

Willard. His much annoying nickname for me.

At night, I'd roll over on my back and he’d go ballistic. "Whoa! Get off of me, you oaf! You trying to smother me? Go back to your village, idiot!”

After tolerating this abuse for years, I finally went to the dermatologist.

Once we were alone in the examination room, he piped up. "You really going to go through with this, huh?"
"Yes, you and I are going separate ways."
"Willard, you dump me now and I'll come back to torment you with Cindy Crawford"
"You don't even know Cindy Crawford."
“She’s got a mole. You got me. That practically makes you cousins, no?”
“You’re insane."
“You’re just afraid, Willard. Afraid I’m going to impress Cindy and you’ll be left standing there, drubbing your lips.”
“Just shut up."
"Oooo! Great come back, Willard! . I’ll tell Cindy you said, ‘Blubbiddy-blubbiddy-blubbiddy.’” His maniacal laughter really got under my skin.

Finally, the doctor entered with his nurse. As if that was his cue, Mr. Nasty said, "Hey, get this doughy lump out from under me!"
"They can't hear you."
"Who can't hear whom?" asked the nurse, smiling at me.
"No, no. I was talking to my mole."
The corners of her smile turned frownward. Trying to comprehend what I just said, she dead-panned, "Talking . . . . to your . . . . mole? Mmm hmm."
He quickly seized the opportunity. "Went for a doctor's visit and an Imbeciles Anonymous convention broke out. Quick! Lock the doors! Don’t let this one escape! He might fetch a couple of bucks on eBay. Oh wait! What was I thinking? Ebay is for stuff people actually want!” Again with the laughter.
"Just shut up, okay?"
"Excuse Me?" The nurse shot back.
"No, no! Not you! The mole."
Tilting her head she inquired, "Soooo . . . the mole talks to you, too?"
"Yes. I mean, no! I mean . . . look, it's a long story."
"Better get to the point, Willard. They’re calling for the big butterfly net!"
"Cute."
Her eyes squinted threateningly. "Ex-Cuse ME!"
"No, not you! . . . Wait! I'm not saying you're not cute or ugly!"
This set him to howling. "Which is it, Willard? Is she not cute or is she ugly? Better watch yourself! Looks like you’re getting fresh with a woman who’s got a razor in her hand. I got twenty says you’re gonna make the cut!"

If a mole could’ve doubled over, he would have been.

"The mole again?" She asked dubiously.
"Yes."
"And it's . . . 'cute'?"
"I was being sarcastic."
The nurse tried another approach. "Did your referring doctor talk to the mole?"
"No. Why?"
"Well, this is a dermatology office not a psychiat-"
"I'm not crazy."
Simultaneously, the nurse and the mole said, "And yet you say you’re talking to a mole.”

If he could cry from laughing, the band on my underwear would’ve gotten soaked.

Hanging my head I said, "Look, can we just get this over with?"
"Yeah, I need to cut my losses. And sister, this is one big time loser."

As the nurse held the mole up in front of her, about to drop him in a biopsy bag, he joked, "Hey, Willard! Keep in touch!"
Looking at him I said, "Yeah, I'd like to touch you."

I remember only three things after that. The nurse looking both disgusted and angry. Mr. Nasty, belly laughing. Then, a sudden darkness, following close behind the sharp pain to the side of my head.

The moral here is, life’s too short to let a nasty mole be an irritating blemish.


© 2006 Michael Wicinski

Seriously friends, have any moles checked out regularly by your doctor. My “Mr. Nasty” turned out to be nothing. However, one I didn’t even know about caused the dermatologist some concerns and I had to go back in and give another slice. Thankfully, nothing bad was found.

You have the Right to Remain Uncracked

Early on, I was often on the verge of going over the limit, flirting with stepping over the boundaries of the law. I was a 60's envelope pusher. One such early foray ended when mom told me, “for the last time,” I couldn't build an outhouse in our backyard, no matter how badly I wanted one. That really stunk.

However, it didn’t end this rebellious behavior.

One evening, a buddy and I decided to walk around the BIG BLOCK. Being at the extremely mature age of eight or nine we relished this chance to flex our independence.

Unfortunately, there are two sides to an incident such as this. We were being independent, all right, but much too early in our parent’s eyes.

I don't remember what happened to my friend once he got home, but the words from the sermon I received that night are still tattooed in bold print on my fanny. Mom was a pioneer in the psychology of negative reinforcement.

Leaving work one recent afternoon, and being a rut-monger, I saw no need to change my route home. One street I travel is frequented regularly by the police. They love to hide in the bushes and then jump out, pointing glaze-encrusted fingers at speeders they’ve just busted.

On this particular day, a pickup passed me like I was a stump. The officer “taking pictures,” was on him like he thought he was hauling a kilo of fresh donuts. He quickly maneuvered the guy back into the lane where I was. With this interdiction blocking my way, I stopped short, waiting for my chance to go around them.

Au contraire.

The squad-car door opened, the officer leaned out and, after licking it really good, he pointed his finger at me and said, "You might as well pull over too. You were speeding." Flabbergasted, I obeyed.

Approaching me first, I asked him how fast he had clocked me.

“Forty-eight."

My jaw dropped and in total disregard of my brain telling it not to say anything stupid, my mouth spouted off, "I don't think so!"

Visions of prison shower-parties quickly passed through my mind. My eyes, among other things, squinched shut. My mouth forged on: "I’ll give you forty-four, but there’s no way I was doing forty-eight!"

"Well,” he asked, a bit flummoxed, “was that truck passing you?"

Gentle Feeders, I now stood at a moral crossroads. I could either lie, or come clean about the whole affair.

"Yeah, he was passing me." An immediate sense of relief swept over me after offering this nugget of truth.

You’d think the officer would have admired my honesty and bid me adieu, maybe with a friendly, Barney-like wave. Instead he had to find something to ticket me for. Seems his brain had a sugar-induced job description review after I’d discounted his charge of speeding.

Because of this ticket-at-all-cost mentality, I found myself in court.

Was justice served? No. I got off with a warning and probation. Can you believe that? Probation? As the saying goes, “You can’t fight City Hall,” and I knew better than to question a judge’s edict.

Now I’m back on the road attempting to be on my best behavior. If I don’t incur a similar offense within the next six months, the charge will be dropped. Luckily, this didn’t cost me a cent.

I offer up this slice of my life so you can learn from my mistakes. Just say, “No,” to crack. Well, crack-ed windshields, that is. That’s what I was ticketed for.

Hester Prynne couldn’t have been more mortified.

Driving with a cracked windshield is a bad reflection on the local police. It says, “We don’t have enough time to bust you for that single offense, but if we can get you on multiple charges, our time away from the donut shops is well worth it.”

Here’s to Truth, Justice and the American Jelly-filled.


© 2006 Michael Wicinski

We didn't get enough

Through seven states in seven days . . . $54+ a night

3005 miles . . . up to $2.699/gallon

The snow-capped mountain vistas, chattering yellow-leaved aspens, thunder and a brief ice shower in Western Colorado . . . Priceless

More later.