The Phone is Ringing
By Rod Vanderhoof
Feeling her age, Mrs. Hardwood had stretched out and was dozing when the phone rang about 9:00 a.m. It irritated
her when the phone rang during the day. Not only was she often napping, but nine times out of ten it was some phony charity
asking for money. Why doesn’t anyone ever send me some money, she thought. She lifted the receiver.
“Huh…row,” she said, “Miyo’s Japanese Steakhouse, Miyo Kojo speaking. Try my romaine
and get ptomaine."
"Mothe…er!” said the voice at the other end. “What are you doing?”
“Huh…row, is Japanese for hello. I get so irritated with these phone calls. I donate ten dollars to the
sheriffs’ association just one time and get daily phone calls for the rest of my life. What’s up?”
“This is your favorite daughter.”
“Well,
Sallie! It’s so nice of you to call.”
“This
isn’t Sallie."
"Well, Vicki, how are things in Kalamazoo?”
“This is Susan.”
“Oh, rea…lly?
All my daughters sound alike. Come to think about it, they all look alike, too. You’re lucky I can tell you apart. Maybe
name tags would help. That’s it, next Christmas you girls get name tags.”
“What about our brother?”
“John? Oh, I
nearly forgot him. He’s the one with the shaggy eyebrows isn’t he? Yes, I want to keep things equal, so I’ll
give him a name tag, too. It will read, ‘John Huntington Hardwood.’”
“He’ll be so touched,” said Susan. “It will bring tears to his eyes to think that his very
own mother would give him a name tag so she can remember who he is.”
“So you like the idea?”
Ignoring her mother’s
question and changing the subject, Susan said, “Mom, Tim and I thought we’d come over and take you to dinner.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“For one thing,
we haven’t seen you in a month,” she said. “Pick a restaurant, someplace very special.”
“Oh, goodie! I’ve been wanting to eat at Ernie’s Greaseburger Stand. A hot greaseburger with a thick
chocolate milkshake and a side of fries is my idea of gourmet dining. I’m so sick of low-salt veggie burgers. The last
one I ate at Emerald Wednesday’s was thick, mushy and, worst of all, a bilious green. It tasted like a rotten old compost
heap. There is nothing worse than a green burger. I almost threw up.”
“Have something else.”
“Like what? I
tried their salt-free dishwater soup. There was still soap in it. Get that?” she asked. “Soap in the soup? I think
I’m an alliterate, or is that illiterate? I keep forgetting…yukkie!”
“But greasy hamburgers aren’t good for you.”
“I
know, but what a wonderful way to go. Just think, as I approach the Pearly Gates I’ll be munching on one of Ernie’s
Greaseburgers. I’ll bring an extra burger for St. Peter and we’ll both be in heaven.”
“We also want to talk to you about the Bolshoi Ballet,” she said. “It’s coming to town in a
few weeks. Tim and I are going and thought maybe you’d join us. Nurevnikov himself will be in Swan Lake.”
“I hope he can swim.”
“Mother, stop
that! Nurevnikov is one of the greatest male ballet dancers of all time.”
“Oh, goodie! Nothing could be more exciting than seeing a grown man mince around on stage in his long underwear.
Frankly, I’d rather see the Redskins play football. I love their bruising line play.”
“But there’s no game.”
“I know, isn’t
that a shame,” Mrs. Hardwood said. “Yes, I’ll go, but I’m bringing a bag of peanuts to get me through
the performance; and if Nurevnikov can hoist that ballerina without dropping her, I’ll cheer.”
“Don’t worry, he’s never dropped her yet.”
“Yeah, but I hear she’s been gaining weight.”
“Mothe…r!”
“Last year, Kalashnikov
made a leaping catch of her and hurt his back. Now he can’t straighten up. He’s been going to a chiropractor ever
since.”
“Mother, that’s silly. Besides a Kalashnikov is a Russian assault rifle. The ballet dancer is a Nurevnikov.”
“Kalashnikov…Nurevnikov…Sha-mish-nikov! It’s all the same.”
“Mothe…er! I have to run. You behave yourself for a change. We’ll pick you up at six and go to Ernie’s
Greaseburger Stand."
"Excellent. I’ll put you back into my will.”
