The Emporia Gazette

May 28, 2012

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The story you are about to hear is true. The names have been changed to protect the innocent.

We were out to dinner this past weekend with another couple who have kids our kids’ ages. Our children have virtually grown up side by side, going back and forth between houses on weekends and spending days at a time together during summer. In fact, while we were out, our 11-year-old twin daughters were at their house and probably would end up sleeping over for the night.

After we’d ordered, I asked if they were sure they wanted to keep the girls. “I’m surprised,” said Mr. X, “that your girls would even want to sleep over after last weekend.” My wife and I both stared, a little bit concerned, sure that one of our children had done something we’d have to apologize for. He and his wife looked at each other.

“They didn’t tell you?” he said. Then he related the story that makes it necessary for me to call him Mr. X.

The weekend before, our girls had spent the entire day with the Xs’ daughter, running around their house, playing goofy games girls play and generally making a huge mess. They dressed up in various clothes, leaving them all over the place, and went down to the basement and took out every game they had. By lunchtime, their house looked like it had been ransacked by burglars.

Sometime in the middle of the afternoon, Mr. X felt the call of nature and, as middle-aged men often do, tucked the sports section of the Saturday paper under his arm and headed upstairs.

Hoping for a little privacy in a noisy house, he went all the way to the third floor, where they have a spare bed and bath.

Once up on the third floor, he found the bathroom a complete mess, things all over the floor. He frowned, closed and locked the door, sat down, opened up the paper and began to read all about how the Patriots were going to run away with the Super Bowl.

He’d been there, by his own estimation, for quite a long while. (Admit it, you yourself have sat there far, far longer than necessary, and when there’s something good to read, you’ve been there so long your spouse had to start looking for you.)

At some point, he heard a knock on the door. He ignored it, knowing that there were two other bathrooms in the house.

A couple of minutes later, the knocking came again, a little more insistent, and he finally spoke up.

“Who is it?” he asked, somewhat annoyed.

My daughter’s voice answered, identifying herself. “It’s me, Mr. X!” she said.

“Well,” he called out, “I’m busy right now. Just go downstairs, and I’ll be down in a few minutes!”

“I can’t!” my daughter said.

“Why not?” At this point he was getting aggravated. A man’s home is his castle: he was on his throne and in no position to entertain guests.

“Because!” my daughter answered. “We were kind of playing hide-and- seek!”

“SO?” he answered. He said he had a feeling some sort of valuable household item had gotten broken.

“And the problem is,” she said, “I decided to hide inside the bathroom vanity!”

Mr. X said at this point, he finished up so quickly that he almost hurt himself, jumping up and running out the door like the toilet had caught fire.

There are some things in life that are so disturbing, you can’t think of them without getting a cold shiver up your spine. I wouldn’t be surprised if, years from now, my grandkids will live in a house with only pedestal sinks in the bathroom, and a firm house rule against playing hide-and-seek.

To find out more about Peter McKay, please visit www.creators.com.