Thursday, January 3rd, 2002

Just don’t even try to get Sean’s attention when his nose is in a book. He was at the kitchen table the other morning, devouring breakfast and a political treatise on the after-effects of fascism in Europe, or similar light reading. Outside, My Darling B, a load of groceries in her arms, tried to get him to open the patio door by rapping sharply on the glass three times. He didn’t even twitch. She rapped a couple more times; no response. She tried shouting, with similar results. It wasn’t until she gave the door a good, solid pounding, swinging her bent arm high over her head, that Sean finally looked around, as if he’d become dimly aware that someone, in a voice on the edge of hearing, was calling his name.

I ran into the same problem when I went to pick up Sean and B and the commissary. Sean was standing out front, because he was supposed to be watching for me, but when I caught sight of him I noticed he stood hunched over a magazine, deep in thought. Uh-oh, I said to myself. I tooted the horn as I drove up, but I should’ve known better. Luck was with me, though, in the form of a parking space close by, so I tooted again as I pulled in. He actually looked up this time, but in the entirely wrong direction, then quickly returned to his magazine.

Honk. Honk. Honk.

I was starting to piss off the other people in the parking lot, so I instead of the horn, I opened my door and shouted his name over the top of the van as loud as I could. His expression was puzzled as he looked around, then changed to recognition when he finally caught sight of me hanging out the side of the van, waving my arms. What I need is a howitzer, or some kind of remotely-controlled live wire down his shorts.

in the zone | 7:30 pm CDT
Category: Seanster | Tags:
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