No Explanations

I consider my renunciation of matches utterly justifiable.  In fact, no matter what you may hear, the things I do have perfectly reasonable explanations.  I've stopped making them, of course, but that's only because I'm sensitive to other people's needs.  I know they prefer their original conclusions to those my mundane motives would lead them to, and since it makes them happy to think I'm eccentric, oversexed, or perpetually dazed, how can I disillusion them?  More important still, how can I hope to try?

Consider, if you will, the Monday morning I should have cut my math class.  I took my seat, unzipped my notebook, and removed a worn pair of lacy briefs.  There I sat, pencil poised over a clean page, trying to appear blissfully unaware of the buzz about me.  I knew what my classmates were thinking, but I hoped, with a little luck, to get credit for being nonchalant.  When you've inadvertently ruined your reputation, you settle for whatever pluses you can get.  And there would be no credit for my homework, I knew.  I hadn't done it.

I had meant to, naturally.  I'd even reminded myself of it as I prepared to leave my girlfriend's house.  Packing my suitcase at the end of my weekend visit, I made a mental note to do both my math work and my wash when I reached home.  To make sure I wouldn't forget either task, I placed those briefs in my notebook.  "There now," I thought," if I just remember one chore, it'll remind me of the other.  Surely I won't forget both."

Oh, no?

But my memory sharpens from such experiences.  For weeks I was not only meticulous about math assignments, but a compulsive laundress as well.  And long after both these aberrations wore off, I could still recall that lingerie was not a good mnemonic device.

Then there was the explanation I didn't make one Christmas.  Once again my haphazard memory forced me into acting nonchalant.  I had promised my students a piece of bubble gum each as my Christmas present to them.  This came back to me the night before the Christmas party.  The memory was accompanied by two other realizations, both unpalatable.  First, the roads outside were icy; my tires would never make it to the store.  And second, I had but seventeen cents until tomorrow's paycheck.

But a promise is an obligation, a debt to be paid, and I took the one course open to me.  Phoning the drugstore, I asked if they sold bubble gum.

"Just a moment," said a baritone, full of Christmas cheer.  "I'll connect you to our bubble gum department."

"Yes?" demanded that department in a pleasant soprano.

"Thirty-six pieces of bubble gum, please."

There was a long pause.  I tried to look nonchalant even though no one could see me.

"Yes," the voice said doubtfully.  "And will there be anything else?"

"Oh, no.  But would you have it delivered, please?"

"Thirty-six pieces of bubble gum, to be delivered.  Of course."  The soprano was being nonchalant now too, which made me feel much better.

"Oh, and could you charge it for me?"

"Certainly.  And the name?"

"Ronale Brown."

"Ah," said the bubble gum department.  "I see.  Yes, of course.  Mrs. Brown."

The way she said my name, I knew right away.  No explanations.