My motto in childhood was “If a little bit is good, a lot has to be better.” This was doubly true when it came to talking.
Bedtime was at 8 pm, but I had a dodge. I’d dash from my room, telling Mom that I had “just two more things to say.” This worked well. Only one item “could wait until tomorrow,” and three topics were “too much to talk about” before I turned in.
But two tales provided the perfect amount of procrastination.
With practice, I learned how to stretch them into an extra half-hour of avoiding the sandman.
In grade school I applied my “two things” method liberally. If someone asked how they looked, I’d offer a detailed, wrinkle-by-wrinkle inventory of their features and blemishes. And when my teacher posed a question, I’d shout out two answers—even she hadn’t called on me. Too much was never enough.
So I spent a lot of time in the front office.
Principal Lewis soon installed an extra desk in the lobby, just for me. I passed many an afternoon looking out his window while my classmates enjoyed a game of kickball.
The isolation only made me more talkative.
High school went more smoothly. I thought I’d improved—I stayed out of trouble. But, in reality, the dean of students had bigger fish to fry—talking in class was no longer an academic felony.
In college I managed to find the perfect major—speech. My debate coach said I possessed “that stellar ability needed by top debaters.” I beamed, thinking he was going to praise my diligence, savvy researching skills, wry sense of humor, or keen analysis. But he mentioned none of those traits.
“You think and talk in paragraphs,” he said. “It’s hard to get a word in.”
This was the first, last, and only time I’ve ever been complimented for talking non-stop.
But loquaciousness runs in the family—on my side, anyway. When I brought Karin home to meet my parents, she sat at their table in silence, waiting for a break in the conversation.
It never came.
When it was time to leave, Karin was miffed. “I don’t think they like me,” she said.
I was stunned.
“They LOVE you,” I squeezed her arm. “They were all smiles.”
“But they never let me talk.”
“Let you?”
“I never got a turn.”
“You just need to say something.”
“But SOMEONE’S ALWAYS TALKING. Before dinner, after dinner, while they watched TV,” Karin said. Her lower lip protruded.
“It’s like merging on the Pasadena freeway,” I said. “You punch the gas and go for it.”
“Even when they’re talking with someone else?” she flinched.
“Sure. My family eavesdrops on one conversation while carrying on another. They’ll toss a comment your way.”
“A comment?” Karin looked puzzled. “They’ll have two conversations at the same time?”
“At least. The record is nine-at-once, held by my mother.”
“Nine?” Karin’s eyes bugged out. “How’s that possible?”
“Easy. We were in a Basque restaurant, five of us and four people at the next table.”
“That’s only eight,” Karin said, “unless she talked to herself, too.”
“She did,” I nodded. “And that’s how it’s done—just dive right in.”
“I’m not sure,” Karin hesitated, “I can do that.”
“Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll sit a few chairs away from you, and you can talk to me.”
“I’ll have to shout.”
“Not a problem,” I assured her. “Let’s give it a go.”
So the next time we visited, I sat across the table from Karin, and raised my voice above the din.
“How are your nursing classes?” I shouted.
I saw her lips move, but couldn’t hear her.
“What?” I leaned in.
She cupped her hands like a megaphone and answered.
“Great,” she said, looking side-to-side to see if anyone had noticed. They hadn’t… yet. I motioned for her to keep talking, but she just rolled her eyes. So I prompted her again.
“You’re doing that clinical stuff?” I asked.
“Yes, for some time now.”
Still nothing.
I ransacked my brain for nursing terminology, and took another stab at igniting a conversation that centered on Karin.
“Your class is doing pedicures this week?”
“No, it’s called PERI-CARE,” Karin corrected me. She then narrowed her eyes and shook her head slightly, hoping to waive me off this line of discussion.
But I was oblivious.
“So, what’s peri-care?” I hollered.
At this point, everyone had finally turned to look at her. She stared into her spaghetti.
“It’s personal hygiene,” she said vaguely.
“Like combing their hair?” I asked, trying to be helpful.
“No….” Karin blushed a deeper red that our marinara sauce. “It’s cleaning their private parts.”
Now she definitely had everyone’s attention.
“You get paid for that?” my brother asked.
“Not just yet,” Karin said, glaring at me. “I’m only a student.”
My mother rescued Karin, turning the conversation to our favorite topics: movies, music and current events. Karin, glad for the change, jumped in and offered her opinion. Soon she was laughing, listening and interrupting with the rest of us. The evening also included can-you-top this revelations of awkward moments in our family’s history. Karin loved it, and soon adapted to my quirky family.
She did threaten to kill me if I embarrassed her again.
Eventually Karin and I got married and started our own family. When the kids came along, Karin insisted that we teach them the proper way of taking turns. They more-or-less learned how to behave like normal people. But I remain a hopeless case. I was reminded of this the other night at dinner. One of our daughters was seated next to me, eating quietly. She’d had a long day at work, and her car’s engine had seized up.
I saw her studying me with an expression of deep thought.
“Dad,” Nicole said, “Can I ask you about car shopping?”
I perked up. She’d brought up one of my favorite topics.
“Sure!” I said. “There’s three or four websites we can look at, and you may want to subscribe to Consumer Reports. You know you can ask Chris over at Fritz’s what he recommends, too.”
“Dad,” Nicole said. “I’m really tired, and only getting about half of this.”
“OK, love. But you should plan on seeing him. It’s the best money you’ll ever spend. You may want to go down to Sacramento, or get a quote off the Internet, and if you’re getting a newer car, you’re insurance and license are going to go up and you should budget for that. And…”
I felt a tug on my arm. It was my wife.
“HELLO,” Karin said. “Look at your daughter. Her eyes have glazed over.”
“She’s tired,” I agreed.
“She told you she’s hearing only half of what you say.”
“I know. That’s why I’m telling her twice as much as she needs to hear.”
Karin shook her head.
“Hey,” I said. “She’ll remember some of this.”
“Can it wait until the weekend?” Nicole said. “My brain is throbbing.”
“Sorry,” I patted her arm. “I didn’t know you had a headache.”
“I didn’t,” she sighed, “until now.”
“Oops,” I said.
Nicole reached over and held my hand.
“Dad, do you remember when we did homework together?”
“Sure.”
“Remember HOW I asked you for help?”
I pondered Nicole’s question. I remember her algebra word problems, but I don’t recall our conversations. I shrugged. “I guess not.”
“Before I’d ask you a question, I’d say ‘now in as few words as possible, can you explain…?’”
“You didn’t?”
“She did” Karin laughed. “I was there.”
“But it didn’t stop you,” Nicole added. “I’d turn to go. Then you’d say ‘Oh, that reminds me of a great story.’ And I’d say, ‘But Dad I just want to finish my homework before midnight.’”
“You’re exaggerating,” I said.
Nicole sighed.
Karin nodded, sympathetically. “Let’s have a show of hands,” Karin said. “Who remembers the dreaded afternoons of ‘doing-homework-while-Dad-drones-on-and-on’?”
Everyone present—but me—raised a hand.
“The verdict’s in,” Karin said. “Does the convicted have a final word?”
I looked at my accusers, but they avoided eye contact.
“Actually, yes. I’d like to say just two things.”
Everyone groaned.
“Do that,” Karin warned, “and we will call Mr. Lewis.”
Robb has enjoyed writing and performing since he was a child, and many of his earliest performances earned him a special recognition-reserved seating in the principal’s office at Highland Elementary. Since then, in addition to his weekly column on A News Cafe – “Or So it Seems™” – Robb has written news and features for The Bakersfield Californian, appeared on stage as an opening stand-up act in Reno, and his writing has been published in the Funny Times. His short stories have won honorable mention national competition. His screenplay, “One Little Indian,” Was a top-ten finalist in the Writer’s Digest competition. He has two humor books in print, The Doggone Christmas List and The Stupid Minivan. Robb presently lives, writes and teaches in Shasta County, Northern California.
