Old Age and Treachery
by Janine McCarthy
“Old age and treachery trumps youth and skill.” My dad’s favorite saying. Something to that effect, anyway.
Three weeks ago we went out to dinner. Dad and Wendy, my step-mom, offered to treat. Normally I wouldn’t hear of it: their income is small and my kids act like starving savages, but Dad and Wendy have begun to take offence when I pick up the tab. Fine. We were a small group, so I obliged them this time.
Somehow we became a big group. That might have been my fault. Anyway, the restaurant wasn’t cheap, and the meal cost more than Dad and Wendy spend on two weeks’ worth of groceries. I felt terrible. I tried to pay half, but the old folks refused.
Once back at their house, I quietly slipped a $50 bill under their bedroom TV. My hope was that they’d find it, think they’d misplaced it, and adopt it as their own. Like zoo monkeys with baby monkey orphans. My plan would have worked if my dad was single. Or married to a zoo monkey. He found the bill later that night and, as he said, “started to believe in the Tooth Fairy again.” Wendy wasn’t so easily fooled. She knew immediately what I’d done, and called to let me know I’d be seeing the $50 bill in the mail soon.
Sure enough, it came two days later with a note: “Nice try, Proby.” Proby?! Well this proby wasn’t going down without a fight! Fortunately my roommate is an internet shop-a-holic who works in a shipping-and-receiving department, so shipping materials abound in our home and shipping costs are no object.
I started with a small cube-shaped box. I filled a plastic sandwich bag with dry rice and placed it in the box. I folded the $50 bill into a piece of paper and threw that into the box. Lastly, I added some air-filled plastic bags to keep the contents from moving around. My roommate mailed the box the following morning, with an ETA of two days.
A week went by. My parents didn’t call. Nothing unusual came in the mail. Another week. Continued silence. I began to wonder if they’d even received the box, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask.
Last weekend they joined us for lunch to celebrate my daughter’s birthday. They handed her a pink envelope. She tore it open, pulled out a birthday card, squealed with delight, and waved that damn $50 bill in the air.
My dad leaned over to me and grinned. “Old age and treachery, dear daughter.”
Three weeks ago we went out to dinner. Dad and Wendy, my step-mom, offered to treat. Normally I wouldn’t hear of it: their income is small and my kids act like starving savages, but Dad and Wendy have begun to take offence when I pick up the tab. Fine. We were a small group, so I obliged them this time.
Somehow we became a big group. That might have been my fault. Anyway, the restaurant wasn’t cheap, and the meal cost more than Dad and Wendy spend on two weeks’ worth of groceries. I felt terrible. I tried to pay half, but the old folks refused.
Once back at their house, I quietly slipped a $50 bill under their bedroom TV. My hope was that they’d find it, think they’d misplaced it, and adopt it as their own. Like zoo monkeys with baby monkey orphans. My plan would have worked if my dad was single. Or married to a zoo monkey. He found the bill later that night and, as he said, “started to believe in the Tooth Fairy again.” Wendy wasn’t so easily fooled. She knew immediately what I’d done, and called to let me know I’d be seeing the $50 bill in the mail soon.
Sure enough, it came two days later with a note: “Nice try, Proby.” Proby?! Well this proby wasn’t going down without a fight! Fortunately my roommate is an internet shop-a-holic who works in a shipping-and-receiving department, so shipping materials abound in our home and shipping costs are no object.
I started with a small cube-shaped box. I filled a plastic sandwich bag with dry rice and placed it in the box. I folded the $50 bill into a piece of paper and threw that into the box. Lastly, I added some air-filled plastic bags to keep the contents from moving around. My roommate mailed the box the following morning, with an ETA of two days.
A week went by. My parents didn’t call. Nothing unusual came in the mail. Another week. Continued silence. I began to wonder if they’d even received the box, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask.
Last weekend they joined us for lunch to celebrate my daughter’s birthday. They handed her a pink envelope. She tore it open, pulled out a birthday card, squealed with delight, and waved that damn $50 bill in the air.
My dad leaned over to me and grinned. “Old age and treachery, dear daughter.”
Janine McCarthy is a recent graduate of PCC with degrees in English, English Literature, and Humanities. She currently volunteers as a researcher and metadata creator for the Pasadena Digital History Collaboration.
