Life in the Gutter

    When the town constable turned the corner of Logan and North Third Street in his police cruiser a week ago, he had every right to give me a citation.
    Whatever violation he thought I had committed, I am certain I was guilty of it.
    And, had he stopped, I would not have argued.
    How could I?  I was being perfectly stupid. My actions were impulsive and without logic.
    The Wife had already pleaded and begged me to change my decision and modify my actions. And when The Wife speaks, I usually change my behavior. I normally reflect on the error of my ways.
    Occasionally, I agree with her.
    But this time, the allure of excitement was too great. Besides, this was good, clean excitement.
    And most of all, I was convinced if I didn't join the party in our front yard, my children would have all the fun.
    That's why, in the middle of the summer's hardest thunderstorm, the analytical, logical, conservative middle-aged father lay face down in the gutter.
    As thick raindrops and occassional hailstones pelted my back and an eight-inch torrent of rainwater rushed over, under and around my feeble attempt to create the largest man-made dam this side of the Colorado River, the sheer absurdity of what I was doing did not escape me.
    Was there lightning in the area? Yes. Were my children, who were alternately running, sliding, splashing and rolling in the street, lawn and in the growing pool of run-off captured by my ample girth likewise at risk for injury and possible death?  Yep.
    The thought didn't stop any of us.
    The suddenness of the storm's onset left the street in perfect darkness, without illumination by street lights. Might a passing vehicle render us as so many speed bumps? Sure, it was a possibility.
    Wasn't there a faint smell and the slight taste of herbicide mixed with street oil in the water as it poured past my best attempt of imitating a hydroelectric dam? Uh huh.
    The intervention of warm concrete brings even cold rainwater to an almost bath-like temperature there in the gutter. I could lie here for hours, I thought.
    I did have the presence of mind to suggest to the boy of the house he might float a boat down the gutter. I also knew this moment of insanity needed to be captured on film. The Wife thought I had given up until I rushed back outside and three violent flashes held the moment for eternity, or at least until my computer crashes.
    In this state of euphoria (a two-inch rain in Nebraska in the middle of July is as big as any national news story), my personal gratitude for the miracle of moisture in a farming community and my unrestrained happiness of sharing a Kodak moment with my family--sans The Wife, of course, who in her protective maternal way had one hand on the door of the house and the other poised to dial 911 at the first sign of danger--the protector and server of our fair city patrolled down our side yard street and turned into the path of three adolescents and their non-protective father--face down in the gutter.
    As I said, if there was criminal violation here, I couldn't have argued. Child endangerment. Obstruction of traffic. Being an idiot without a license. For a moment, our eyes met.
    DWI. Again, guilty as charged, your Honor. Without a doubt, I was under the influence of nature's power to renew and refresh not only the land but the weary, dry spirit of a middle-aged man through the juvenile companionship of his children.
    DWI.  I was Drenched Without Inhabition.

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This Page was last update: Friday, December 8, 2006 at 8:22:04 AM
This page was originally posted: 11/27/06; 5:42:38 PM.
Copyright 2008 David Friedli

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