Why I Am A Huge Loser

Why I would publicly share the story I am about to relate is beyond me.

Perhaps I have some deep-seated need to confirm the suspicions of all who know me that I am indeed a giant loser from hell. Maybe I feel I deserve punishment for an ordinary act gone horribly, horribly awry.

It was about two weeks ago, on a perfectly pleasant morning that gave no hint that it was about to rocket off the rails. My sons were here and I left them in the apartment while I went down to get the mail.

On the way back, I was shuffling through the envelopes in my hand, not paying much attention to anything else.

When I went to open the door, it was locked, although I had not locked it. I tried again, rattling the knob loudly. No response.

Kids love to lock you out sometimes. My students, particularly the Grade Nines, in the pitiful infancy of their maturity, find it endlessly entertaining to lock the door when I have to step out for a moment, so that I frequently find myself in the hall, stripped of all dignity, trying in vain to gain entrance to my own classroom, issuing grave threats whilst gales of muffled giggles assail me from the other side. (I assume this happens to other teachers. It does, right?) It can be a tad tough to explain when administrators happen along, frowning. They never seem to believe that it's lock-down practise.

So I wasn't terribly surprised that my own kids would find this hilarious. I pounded authoritatively on the door to no avail, once, twice, three times, louder each time. Still no answer.

Finally I shouted, "OPEN UP, YOU LOSERS!" And thumped on the wood again with hinge-straining force.

Nothing. Dead silence from within.

There are two standard warnings I generally issue to my offspring when they for any reason find themselves on thin ice. My favourite is, "No food for you," or, "No shelter for you," both of which might raise the eyebrows of the child welfare authorities but possess, I think, a certain panache, especially if you don't find the thought of jail all that daunting. But this time I went for a lesser-used but equally dramatic third admonition, to wit:

"OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW OR I WILL POUNCE UPON YOU AND TICKLE YOU UNTIL YOU PEE YOUR PANTS!"

Normally, by this time, I would have expected to hear gleeful snickering, but again there was not a sound. The game was going on vexatiously long, so I figured I would extend the retributive tickle attack accordingly once I finally gained access.

"THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE!" I hollered.

Then, to my horror, I heard, quakingly, from inside, a frightened elderly voice call out,

"Who is it?"

Mortified, I realized that I had somehow gotten off the elevator on the wrong floor and was trying to beat down the door of a stranger's apartment, shouting bizarre threats at some terrified old lady.

The etiquette books are mysteriously silent on the subject of what to do in such a situation. Naturally, as a mature individual, an alleged role model in the community, I should have stammered out an abject apology and an explanation.

But what did I, a grown man, decide was best?

I am ashamed to admit that I sprinted, white-tailed-deer-like, to the stairs and beat a very hasty and red-faced retreat, leaving behind me an undoubtedly traumatized senior citizen whom I hope was able to stave off cardiac arrest at the notion that some crazed home invader was intent, for some perversely unimaginable reason, on making her wet herself.

When I got back to my own home, my children could see that something was wrong so they asked and, in my shaken state, I foolishly told them.

When they recovered from their asthmatic, whooping laughter, admidst much gasping and slapping of knees and merriment, I tried to swear them to secrecy, an oath they predictably refused to take, making it their business to inform everyone they knew and the town in general what an incredibly large loser their father is.

Kids these days. You love them and raise them and try to demonstrate good behaviour and upright values and what do they do? They stab you in the back.

So no shelter for them. They sleep in the bus shelter now. But look. This is just between you and me, okay? No squealing, all right? Or I'll pounce upon you until...

Well, now you know the rest.