Fishy Story: Part 2 by Carol Wells
Every year families get-together for reunions, a time to share potluck dishes . . . and stories about the shining, and less than proud, moments within our Individual family units. Some stories can become a family reunion "staple" expectantly shared at every gathering. This is mine . . .
Due to some readers not being a member of my family, the Prelude shares a little about my work environment at the time of this event. Filler information that is not particularly humorous.
One evening, while I was at work, my second born called:
"Hello and thank you for calling [name of restaurant]. This is [cashier's name] and I would be happy to help you with your questions or food order!"
"Hello [name of cashier], I need to talk to [first name, middle name, maiden name, and last name kept after the divorce] (sobbing breath).- It's an emergency!"
While the cashier quickly sensed that the child was not only crying but had been crying hard before calling, the cashier needed more information to determine if this was an emergency call requiring management's attention.
"Is she your mother?"
"Yes, and she needs to come home right now (sobbing breath) . . .."
"Oh my," the cashier murmured while mentally confirming that the caller was one of my children and the sobbing made it clear something had upset her, but what? She wondered if the child was unhappy because I was at work instead of at home; a belated separation anxiety type thing even though I had been working at the restaurant for several months by then.
Yet, everyone I worked with also knew my mother watched the children. Had something happened to my mother, the cashier wondered. Only one way to find out, "Perhaps if you talked to me, I could try to help you. See, your mommy is busy right now . . .."
"You mean my mommy can't come to the phone?" Fresh stream of tears flowing down the child's cheeks psychically-sensed over the phone.
"Not right now," the cashier replied while starting to feel guilty about trying to pry information out of an upset child, particularly when it seemed to only help upset the child more. "It's dinner time for some folks and so she's a little busy at the moment."
"But . . . she has to come home. It's an emergency," my daughter insisted between tears.
"What happened, honey," the cashier gently asked, "What is the emergency?"
"It's Garth Brooks . . .."
Now this response had the cashier totally perplexed. How would a country singer have a child upset to the point that the child had been crying hard before calling for her mother at work? The cashier took a bold initiative to probe deeper. "Garth Brooks?"
"Yes!" My daughter's sobs started producing soft hiccups that only helped provide emphasis to the confirmation of her level of distress.
"What about him?"
" He . . . He's . . . "
"Yes?"
"He just died . . ."
"Garth Brooks died?
"Yes . . . it happened just a few minutes ago. So I need my mommy to come home right now!"
"Oh dear me! Did you like Garth Brooks?" The restaurant used a country station to provide background music for the dining room; yet, she did not recall any news reports about Garth Brooks. How did this child hear about this bit of information?
"Oh yes! I would talk to him every day (sniffling sound). He is . . . was my bestest friend (sobbing breath). Sometimes I would even sing to him . . ."
This morsel of information unexpected so had the cashier wondering if perhaps my child and Garth Brooks had been 'phone buddies' of some sorts. "Oh my goodness, you poor thing . . . (my child sniffles in response) how did he die?"
Ok, the cashier began playing 'curiosity killed the cat' but, in her defense, how often would one receive news like this first hand? By now the cashier was thinking of how to get the phone numbers to local papers and news stations plus the National Enquirer. Over-active imagination fueled thinking of interviews due to her status as one of the first to receive, and break, the news about a famous singer's death while tallying the money made by granting those interviews. Would she meet Katie Couric? What could she wear for the televised appearances? Had her chance for a moment in the limelight finally arrived courtesy of a child's phone call?
"I don't know. I mean, (sniffle) we knew that he had been sick . . . (faint hiccup breath) but he started to act as if he was feeling better . . . .."
"He has been ill?" This was another bit of shocking news for the cashier to mentally note for future use.
"What? (sniffle)"
"Ill, it's another word for sick," the cashier explained.
"Oh. Yes, for a few weeks now. Maybe longer … (soft hiccup with a sob) I'm not sure."
"Oh my! And no clue what he had," the cashier prodded while hoping my child would reveal more information that may come in handy for those future interviews.
"No, I don't know. I would just talk to him and sing to him at times. He did lurch a lot but Mom didn't know if it was part of the sickness or not . . .."
"I am so sorry to hear about this," the cashier said with sincerity.
"I am too (sniffle accompanied by a soft sobbing sound) . . . but could you tell my Mom that I need her to come home right away? Grandma is wanting to take him into the bathroom . . .."
By now, one could knock the cashier over with a feather while she started envisioning captions that would appear beneath her picture in the papers. "He died at your house?"
"Yes, (sniffling sounds) he lived here. Where else would he die at?"
My child now had the cashier thoroughly baffled and delighted trying to decipher all the snippets of information shared. Is it possible that a famous, but married, country singer had been staying or living with a divorced woman and her children in a small Indiana town? She, the cashier, racked her brain trying to remember if I had shared anything about a 'house guest'. Moreover, why would the said woman's mother want to move the dead singer into the bathroom?
My daughter, unwittingly, began to fill in the gaps. "See, when I got him, the lady said he was already sick . . . in fact, she let me have him for free!"
"You bought Garth Brooks?"
"No. I almost did but the pet store gave him to me for free . . . like I said." Dreams of fame shattered as the cashier bit back laughter and her own sense of relief since she was also a fan of Garth Brooks' music. This information also ascertained that management intervention was not required. "So you be sure to tell my mommy that I need her to come home, right now! That it is an emergency! Grandma wants to flush Garth down the toilet . . . (sobbing sound sharing what my daughter thought of that),"
"I will, Honey," the cashier assured the child. "I am sure the manager will let her call you the first chance she gets."
"Ok . . ." My daughter ended the call with one last sniffle.
About This Story's Author:
© 1999-2006 Carol Wells
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