Bad Reflexes

Back in the early 1970s, my father bought an old camper that we could electrify by plugging it in to a very long string of extension cords. If we joined all the cords correctly, the camper was safely grounded. If not, whoever touched the camper’s doorknob would get some stinging volts. But at the time, the only way we could figure out for sure if it was safe to touch the doorknob was to touch the doorknob. Whenever this task fell to me, I’d flick one finger down onto the metal in a quick snap-back arc, but even then, I might get a searing jolt. If I did, I reflexively spewed a long medley of my favorite profanities and obscenities in creative combinations. If you’d ever heard me, you would’ve been shocked. I even shocked myself. So I firmly resolved to sin no more, and the next time before I conducted a polarity test, I’d say out loud to myself, “I’m not going to cuss. I’m not going to cuss.” Alas, every jolt continued to unlock my storehouse of vulgarity, blasphemy, and the profane—strings of invective that grew longer and longer since I now had to curse not only the shock but also my own burgeoning moral turpitude.

Another test of my reflexes occurred many years ago when I was at Wildacres Retreat at the very top of a mountain. A thunderstorm rolled in while our friend Debbie, Carolyn, and I were in a room on the third floor of our lodge. Debbie was sitting on a bed while Carolyn and I were standing. When lightning struck with the flash and booming crack of an explosion only about 20 yards from our window, we were a little surprised. I involuntarily sank to one knee and ducked my head to get as low and compact as possible as quickly as possible. This turned out to be about 2 tenths of a second. I probably looked about like my 6-year-old self tucked under my school desk during a tornado or atomic blast drill except that now I had a more terrified look on my face. Simultaneously, Carolyn executed a full-layout shallow dive onto the bed she was facing, the bed Debbie was on. Though I’m hazy on Debbie’s reaction, Carolyn’s memory is clear that at the moment of blast, Debbie threw her torso backwards so that she was now fully supine. Thus it was that Carolyn ended up with her face nestled in Debbie’s lap, more popularly known as the “crotchal” area. When lightning strikes near the window, dignity goes out the window. Once I realized I was OK, I stood up and left the room, leaving Carolyn and Debbie to … uh, untangle themselves … in private.

About 5 minutes later I was sharing the details of my humiliating, less-than-manly reflexes downstairs with several other survivors when a second bolt struck. Again I collapsed into the one-knee fetal position, cutting my previous land-speed record in half. I guess I’m doomed to repeat my reflexes.

As for Carolyn and Debbie, they’ve been close friends ever since.

(My thanks to Wildacres Retreat, where this piece was written.)