Okay, so I think I’m over the embarrassment and mortification enough to talk about the following now.
Yesterday I traveled down Maumelle Boulevard in rush-hour traffic to pick up Chinese food for the workers at the fireworks stand and myself. I stopped at a red light, glanced to my right, and saw a shiny new apple-red convertible right out of Hollywood. Entirely out of place.
I thought about my pooch Falkor staying at Dr. Peck’s vet clinic during the day so he didn’t have to be kenneled so long at home, and I imagined how he’d look in the passenger seat while I was driving. (See “Find My iPad.”)
I call him “little man.” I’ll say it like four times in a row really fast. “Little man, little man, little man, little maaaan!” He goes berserk, jumping up and down with his tongue hanging out and his floppy ears flying, turning in circles.
For some insane reason, I started saying it while driving down the boulevard, over and over. Trying to save gas, I had all the windows down. I then, again for some unexplainable reason, started singing it to the tune of “Camptown Races”: “Little man, little man, little man, doo-dah, doo-dah!”
Every mile or so, I was stopped by a red traffic light.
Next came “Summertime”: “Little maaaan, little ole little man.” That didn’t work as well as I’d hoped, so I returned to “Camptown Races.”
In my stream-of-consciousness exercise, I remembered loving Woody Woodpecker when I was younger and decided to resurrect Woody’s voice in Falkor’s honor. “HuhuhuHUhu. HuhuHUhu. Huhuhuhuhu, little man.”
I spent the next couple of minutes, or traffic lights, trying to perfect Woody while calling out to my precious pooch.
My voice was a little scratchy at that point, so I went from Woody to Elmer Fudd while the tune inexplicably changed from “Camptown Races” to the theme song from Flipper: “Wittle ole wittle man, wittle man, wittle man, faster than wightning.” I was cracking myself up.
At that point, I was stopped once again at a light, actually laughing out loud at myself. It was maybe the fourth light since I’d started down the boulevard.
I felt compelled to perfect my cross between Woody Woodpecker and Elmer Fudd while singing “Wittle Man” to the tune of Flipper.
At this juncture, I truly believe it was, in fact, the Holy Spirit, who next instructed me to sing “Happy Birthday” to little man as performed by Katharine Hepburn impersonating Elmer Fudd. I can’t even begin to type out how that sounded. But I was insanely proud of it.
I stopped for a moment to catch a breath and heard faraway laughter.
I looked to my right and recognized the same red convertible from the first light, also with its windows down. The first thing I noticed was the woman in the passenger seat. She had her head leaning back against the headrest, laughing so hard she was slapping her raised knee. The dude driving was just staring at me. I have yet to accurately figure out his expression. Not disgust or even a lack of understanding. His mouth was agape, and his brow was furrowed. It almost seemed there was a semblance of awe.
I gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. I concentrated on the red light with everything in my being, as though I’d just graduated from driving school yesterday. The exact same shade of red rose from the back of my neck and traveled upward over my head and down toward my eyes. Thank goodness the light changed. I was able to raise my hand and wave fondly. They heard me proclaim as I raced down the road, “Th-Th-Th-That’s all, folks.”
