I'M LATE, I'M LATE

             I’M LATE, I’M LATE

Suzanne Marsh

I think I was born late. I am running late once again. My husband is glaring at his watch:

“hurry it up, I don’t want to miss Jenny’s graduation.”

“I am hurrying, I don’t want to miss it either.”

Jenny was graduating from college; being late was unacceptable; even for me. Through the years I have been late for my own wedding; I almost had Jenny in the the car. My list is long and varied. My husband has tried for years to schedule my time so I don’t miss events.

That might work for most people but not for me. I have attempted to set my clocks ahead but somehow, some way I run late. I am perplexed by my own behavior. My being late started in high school. Dad, would drive me to school drop me off and go to work, that was when I went to Catholic school. Once I arrived at the public high school, Dad would drop me off at the bus stop. That worked well, but it also taught me that if I did not want to go to an event I would just simply run late.

I especially hated getting up during the winter; I am a Buffalo, New York kid. I can still to this day here my dad: “are you up yet?”

“yeah I’m up,”

Not only was I not up I was still hunkered under the blankets. I would get up, turn the heater up full blast; that was kept in my bedroom. Finally after several “are you up?” I would finally get a move on. Pop would quickly drop me off at the bus stop.

I was usually late for at least one class; of course that depended on how long it took to get from one end of the building to the third floor on the opposite end. That was no easy feat. The stairs were usually crowded, it did no good to tap the person in front of you; that usually resulted in a: “I don’t know why we are all stuck on the stairwell, but sooner or later we will move.” Right, in the mean time I was the one that always found myself in the assistant principal’s office explaining why I was late. Mac MacGamwell had no concept of late in his vocabulary. I sat there dreading this encounter with Mac, he was incredibly diligent when it came to students being on time for class. Being on time simply was not my bailiwick. Mac, loomed above me as he asked this simple one word: “why?” I had enough time to think of something smart to say. I gulped, if he called my Mom one more time I knew I would be grounded.

“Mr. MacGamwell, sir, my first class is on the bottom floor, I had to stop on the second floor,

where my locker is. Then sir I had to go to the third floor on the opposite end of the building.

The stairwell was really very crowded sir. I was stuck there for at least twenty minutes. That

is why I was late for Biology.”

It sounded reasonable, although I don’t think it went over well with Mac:

“30 days detention.”

I mumbled something to the effect that he was a tyrant and then he added another 30 days. Mumbling is a curse all of its own. That was my junior year in high school. When I was in Catholic school, I was late for class unfortunately I was on the third floor, the nuns rooms were up there. I was curious to see how the other half lived. I remember seeing the time, running to my locker. I grabbed my Economic World book, charged up the stairs. I promptly tripped came back down the stairs and there she stood. Sister Mary Catherine, the principal.

“Why are you so late?”

“Ah no reason really Sister.”

“I see, well then you won’t mind explaining what you were doing in the cloister?”

“I got lost?”

Sister was having none of that. I was given detention, a one thousand word essay: about why I did not belong in the cloister. Sister and I never did get along.

Once I met my husband to be I was early or on time until our wedding day. Dad, in his usual are up yet tone had already gotten the car backed out of the garage. I was still waking up, I looked at the clock...I was getting married in half an hour! I pulled my wedding gown off the hanger, headed for the bathroom for a shower. I took a one minute shower. My hair was frizzy, this was not going to help matters on my special day. Mom walked in; looked at me in horror, called my sister to the bathroom:

“She needs a quick make over and her makeup applied.”

“Mom, I am late already.”

“Well, you are just going to have to be later than you were before.”

“Mom, this is my wedding day.”

“Just calm down, this is not going to take that long.”

When Mom was determined there was no talking her out of anything. Dad was pacing the floor, every few minutes he would say:

“hurry up we are late!.”

Finally, my sister and Mom were done. They declared me presentable. Dad and Mom got me in the front of the car. Mom and my sister were in the back. The ride to the church is roughly ten minutes providing the lights were in our favor. That was not happening, we hit every light red. Dad, in his infinite wisdom, began to speed. He was clocked by the police at sixty five in a thirty. Of course the officer seeing me in my bridal gown, suggested that Dad follow him. He asked Dad what time the wedding was. Dad replied nine o’clock. The police officer looked skeptical as he tersely replied:

that was over an hour ago. I really did want to slink under the seat but that was not going to happen either. We arrived at the church, my husband to be was pacing outside the church; the minister was quickly rounded up and we were married.

Jenny, according to my physician, was not due until June. The night before she was born I jumped a hedge it was quicker than going around to the front. I had been visiting a girlfriend. I wanted to get home before my husband got worried. The following morning, I woke up early, I felt “funny”. I woke my husband up:

“Honey, I feel funny.”

“What do you mean funny?”

“I can’t explain it, I just feel funny.”

He jumped out of bed with fireman like haste, he called the doctor. The doctor told him to bring me to the office. My husband in a panic asked:

“What does funny mean doctor.”

“Funny means you are going to be a Father very shortly.”

I had already packed my suitcase; at least that was ready. The bathroom beckoned while I was dressing. That was when the first contraction began. I screamed, my husband ran into the bathroom, to see what the problem was. I told him “funny” was now you better get me to the hospital. He drove like a maniac down several busy streets. I asked him why he was going to the doctor’s office. He stated that the doctor told him to bring me there. I has not having any of that; I told him to go to the hospital. I let out another scream, he almost hit the car in front of us. I glanced at the plate, it was my doctor’s car. The doctor noticed me in his rear view mirror. He got out of his car, opened the car door.

The next thing I knew we were at the hospital. The doctor barely had time to encase his hands in gloves before Jenny arrived. For once I was not late, Jenny was early.

I raced around the house, trying to find the camera. My husband, his foot tapping the floor, had a smile on his face. He showed me the camera. We made it to Jenny’s graduation with two minutes to spare before Pomp and Circumstance began.