On KJZZ's SOAPBOX, The Show turns over the the mic to listeners. In the latest series, listeners tell their own true stories on the theme of Misbehaving. Here's a doozy from Phoenix political consultant Stacy Pearson.
STACY PEARSON: My dad was calling from a telephone number that will forever be etched in my brain. Not home. Nor his work. But the landline of his favorite dive bar — and the location he could most commonly be found on weekday mornings.
“STACE!” he screamed when I picked up. “I NEED GLENN TO COME PICK UP MY LAWNMOWER!”
“What?!” I replied.
In the background, a chorus of old men were laughing and yelling as The Price is Right blared. He screamed his demand even louder.
“I CAN HEAR YOU!” I screamed back. “I MEANT WHYY?”
“Imma get a goat,” he said proudly.
“Let’s talk about this when I pick up the baby.”
From five weeks old until my daughter Jos started preschool, my dad would meet me in the parking lot of my office — almost always waiting on me as I whipped in late for work. I’d transfer her to his car and he’d carefully drive off to the tavern for breakfast.
Bacon and eggs were on the griddle, bar fruit in a highball glass for my child, breakfast beers or Bloody Mary's on the bar for a group of regulars in their assigned seats. Characters included TT, the bearded mailman who would pick his mail truck and drive straight to the tavern to start his shift. Pat, everybody’s State Farm agent whose office was conveniently located next door. Mike, the guy with great hair who sold “new” TVs that never had boxes. Crazy Connie who won the lottery but lost the ticket, supposedly, and got stuck bartending in this Westside strip mall for decades.
My dad was still on the goat kick when I got my folks’ house that afternoon. His lawnmower was already in the garage. He glared at my BMW I couldn’t afford.
“Oh come on! We can’t fit the lawnmower in that thing!!” He waved his hand in disgust.
“Uhhh, has Ma heard about this plan, yet?”
He ignored the question and said, “We need Glenn’s truck.”
Turns out we didn’t need my husband’s truck. The next day, with the strength of an old man on a mission, my dad loaded up his lawn mower and drove it to our house, himself. My poor husband was, until my dad walked in unannounced, sleeping off a graveyard patrol shift. I forgot to mention anything about lawnmowers, goats or trucks in our previous day’s marital download.
“Your father just dropped off his lawnmower?!!?” Glenn said with equal parts grogginess and irritation.
“Oh no. Did he have a goat with him?”
“No.”
“Did he have Jos?”
“Yes!! She thinks she’s getting a baby goat!!? What is happening?!!”
In an unusual twist, my dad asked me to meet him at the tavern, not his house after work, to get my kid back. The toddler and Papa were both pouting at the bar when I walked in. I hugged and kissed them, and the entire cast of Old Spice scented characters.
“Grammy’s mean!” Jos announced, making clear that my mother put an end to the farm-animal-in-a-small-suburban-backyard fantasy.
The mailman was about to burst holding in his laughter.
“Stace!!! Your Ma said no goat!!! Get it? No go..ttt.” he yelled like he’d told the joke 200 times already.
The Old Spicers roared.
My dad, totally defeated said, “Keep the lawnmower. It’s old. I’ll buy a new one at Sears.”
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