They call me Junior, tell me I'm two, and, according to my bib, consider me a precious little gift from heaven, which may no longer apply after the seven-hour car ride today where I threw three temper tantrums, stuck a jelly bean up my nose, choked on a plastic frog, and timed each poopy to occur after we passed the rest stop.
We were at the beach, judging by the smell of battered fish and overabundance of joggers wearing thongs. It was another family reunion with Mommy's family who, according to Daddy, doesn't have a brain cell or a complete set of teeth between them – crammed into what was advertised as a quaint water-front cottage which turned out to be a tiny bug-infested trailer overlooking a sewage drain. That explains why Uncle Buford had some rental money left over for lottery tickets.
I was a good sport for the first several hours of sand-filled diapers, gritty bologna sandwiches, pinches on the cheek, and requests to hear my off-key rendition of twinkle, twinkle little star. I held it together when Raynelle walked out in her new swimsuit (I've had band aids bigger) and Granny Jean told her she was going to hell. Granny is convinced that half of us are going to hell and the half who aren't should be. I kept my cool when I had to sit with Uncle Buford who on a good day thinks the year is 1956 and he's a runner for the mob. And I did not let my temper slip when Aunt Edna started slurring her words and crying over her cat Bootsy who died when she was twelve.
But I'm only two for gosh sakes, I have my limits. And by the time the sun set on our rusty trailer, my patience had worn thin. It was time for some pay back. I chose bedtime as the perfect opportunity. Bedtimes are always a good opportunity. I must admit that I have mastered the art of bedtime stall tactics. So after six books, two kisses, four glasses of water, and a bedtime prayer that would have made Moses proud, I had my Mommy just where I wanted her, with her eyes glazed over and her mouth gone slack. It was time to bump things up a notch. I picked that moment to call out for my Yucky-Yucky who I knew full well had been left behind at our house sleeping soundly in the guest room commode where I left it.
I know it's an odd name for my most beloved object of affection. But Yucky-Yucky is not your average childhood treasure. Not one of those cute plush animals delivered to me at birth by a line of blue-haired well-wishers from the local Baptist church, but an old plastic naked doll with chopped up hair, a face covered with red magic marker, and a missing pinky - delivered straight out of the mouth of the dog next door – and not too willingly might I add. "NO, NO!" Mommy kept shrieking. "That's the dog's toy. It's yucky, baby. It's yucky, yucky." Hence the name.
I made it clear that I wanted Yucky-Yucky and that I would do anything including holding my breath to get it. It was at that particular moment that all eyes turned on me and pandemonium ensued as the entire cast of wacky southern characters descended on me like the seagulls on the Cheetos we had tossed out on the beach.
I screamed. I kicked. I held my breath until I turned blue and Granny said I was going to hell for being disobedient and Aunt Edna tried to give me mouth to mouth until Mommy stopped her and spared me my first taste of Budweiser.
They sent Uncle Skeeter out to buy another doll, cut off the hair, mark all over the face, run over it a couple of times, and pass it off as my Yucky-Yucky. Please, did they think me an idiot? I may forget the number six every time I count to ten, but I know an imposter when I see one. I let them have a couple moments of peace before launching into another jag of earth-shattering bellows.
It was then that Grunt, Cousin Ned's three-legged deaf hound dog, caught sight of Yucky-Yucky and went after it – one of those nice unplanned surprises. I cranked it up a notch while they all chased after Grunt to get the doll, knocking over furniture and trashing what was probably already considered trash to begin with. Ned finally pried the plastic doll from Grunt's teeth and threw it to Aunt Vyrnetta who managed to grab it and fling it up into the air before falling backwards into the fish tank and ripping her new orange Capri pants which, Mommy was correct, made her rear end look like an overgrown pumpkin.
And this is how the counterfeit Yucky-Yucky flew directly into the ceiling fan which had been operating at full speed ever since Aunt Edna had another one of her hot flashes. And there we all witnessed with startling clarity, the death of this imposter Yucky-Yucky who was decapitated in front of our very eyes. Death by ceiling fan.
I stopped crying. The dog stopped barking. Everybody stopped talking and moving at once. Complete silence except for the sound of the plastic head rolling across the hardwood floor where it landed with a thud against a ceramic dolphin wearing sunglasses, the rest of its body still lodged in the fan, whirling round and round like some freaky carnival ride.
They all agreed that letting me stay up as late as I wanted would have a far lesser impact than the scarring that would occur from the gruesome scene which had just played out. And so there I sat, in the middle of it all, for the rest of the night, nestled in my Aunt Edna's bosom that smelled like roses and Marlboros, while Granny prayed over my soul and Uncle Skeet picked a little "I'll Fly Away" on the guitar. Eventually, I fell asleep. Who can blame me? I was exhausted. And in my dreams I replayed that scene over and over – my first real decapitation. Too cool. How will I ever top that?
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