Plimpton Speaks the Truth

“What we have in this family is a complete breakdown of honesty,” I said to my two-year-old nephew Charlie. We were on the couch in the side tv room. Charlie was on my lap, feeling my beard absentmindedly and watching Blue's Clues. I was also watching, as a mystery is a mystery, and I don’t judge. Still, my mind was elsewhere. 

Earlier at dinner, Charlie’s birthday party dinner, to be precise, my father-in-law asked from the head of the large table if I had seen his small fishing line pliers.  (My-father-in-law was given a fishing boat from a longtime friend who’d just passed away. Seizing the boat on the side of the house as a topic of ripe conversation, my idiot brother-in-law asked his father if he’d taken the boat out yet.  My father-in-law said ‘no,’ there was a lull, and the 'pliers question' was then asked.)

“Pliers?” I asked. “You mean like the little ones,” I twisted my hands in a half-circle fashion, “you use to do the thing with the... No. Why?”

“Well, I was in the shed the other day after you put the lawn mower back and they were gone, and I thought maybe you needed them for something. It’s alright if you do.”

I was at a pivotal point. I could say, “Oh yeah, you know what? I’m sorry, there was a chunk stuck in the lawnmower and I needed something to get it out. I thought I put them back though. I’ll check my jeans. Sorry about that.”

From here the conversation could go several ways. For one, my father-in-law and grand inquisitor could have said, “No problem, I’ll check the shed again, they might have just fell."

Two: Father-in-law, (and likely other men chiming in), say, “A chunk? What, like a root? What chunk? Some mud? Dog poop? You used those little pliers to scrape dog poop?” I would have no answer. 

Further questions would be directed at my wife with respect to her laundry duties, and whether she noticed a small set of pliers in my jeans. They’re about yea big. Could smell like shit. You seen 'em?

“You sure you didn’t use the pliers?” My wife’s dad asked again. I pursed my lips and feigned thinking, then patted down my shirt and pants (the shirt had no pockets, and I was wearing neither item on the day in question). “No, no I don’t-“

“It’s just a pair of pliers, geez,” my eldest sister-in-law said, appearing to the uninformed to be coming to my aid. (Provided with years of context one judges her comment as directly related to my father-in-law's busy work schedule during her middle school years.) Indeed, a perceived alliance with meddling Michelle could only hurt me.

“Jack’s mowing your lawn?” the other brother-in-law asked his father, nodding to me.

“No,” the father-in-law began to explain, but was interrupted by my mother-in-law.

“Never mind all that.” She faked a smile and reached for a large bowl. “Annie these mashed potatoes are the best. The best! You’re gonna have to tell that mother of yours to come for Thanksgiving.”

Annie, the wife of brother-in-law #1, and even more of a hopeless introvert than me, took a quick bite of her food to calm any expectations of engaging in further conversation and merely smiled.

“You need to get a riding mower dad,” bro-in-law #2 said. “I’ll never push-mow again.”

“I don’t need a riding mower,” Father-in-law said. 

“But why isn’t he mowing?” bro-in-law #1 asked his mother. “His heart? What’s going on?”

Bro #2 interjected. “What's going on is, he needs a riding mower. This yard's too big for him now.”

Michelle slammed her fork down. “Mom and dad can’t afford a giant fricken' lawnmower! Drop it Thad, geez.”

Thad raised his hands incredulously motioning to the entire room, occupied and not. What did I do?

(You married a rich girl way above the family station and bought a new riding mower because you think you deserve it, that’s what you did, Thad.)

“No! Everybody stop,” my wife said. “Jack’s just borrowing dad’s mower because ours broke.”

Silence.

“Broke?” Sis-in-law #1 finally spoke up.  (As if she ever cared about lawnmower repair a day in her life. -Thanks for extending the convo though.)

“Won’t start?”

“Bad filter maybe? I have to clean mine out every year. What ya do is…”

“Hope it’s not an oil tank leak. I mean forget about it.”

“I think I’m gonna get an electric.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that, I’d be worried about you running over the cord. Electroshock yourself.”

“No, battery powered Mom. There’s no cord.”

“Still.”

“Whattaya mean still? I just said there’s no cord.”

“I don’t like it. Liable to electroshock yourself.”

“It’s electrocute.”

“What's that honey?”

"It’s the handle!” my wife quieted the mob. “The little knob thing fell off on ours last summer and Jack can’t find it, so we just borrow dad’s.”

“Last summer?”

“Well, I tried to duct tape a spoon to the handle to secure the top and bottom parts, but it still got all flopsy 'cuz our yard has so many gopher holes.”

The longest pause of all time.

“You taped a spoon to your mower?”

”Two spoons, actually,” I said.

“What do you say we get that cake coming out,” father-in-law said, turning to Charlie and making a face.

Charlie giggled.

THE COLD HARD TRUTH (for Charlie and readers of this piece only): I’ve been stuffing the old man’s lawnmower in the open trunk of my ’01 Carolla for a year and a half. I lost the knob to my mower in our move to this rental house from the last one. I remember thinking it was smart of me to fold the mower handle for moving. Then I tossed the knob in a box, but it’s easier to get the old man’s mower than search all the boxes. 

REGARDING THE PLIERS IN QUESTION: I was attempting to film a stop animation short called “G.I. and the Fat Guy,” with one of my old G.I. Joes and a character named Plimpton I’d made out of play dough. 

ON THE DAY IN QUESTION: I was filming an exterior scene whereby G.I. and Plimpton are Bigfoot hunting. -A break from G.I.’s regular gig as a Beanie Baby bounty hunter. (I'm not insane, just entering an avant garde comedy film contest online, and, needless to say, my in-laws well-manicured lawn adds considerable production value.)

G.I. AND PLIMPTON cross paths with the beast (a Chewbacca dog toy) and discover Bigfoot is in incredible hemorrhoid pain. G.I. remove the hemorrhoids (raisins) using the fishing pliers. 

CUT TO SIX MONTHS LATER: Plimpton is on the lecture circuit. Bigfoot's hemorrhoids have been proven to treat AIDS. (Not as well as modern medicine, but superior to pre-2000's AIDS treatments.) He does not have a point.

I BELIEVE the pliers are in between the driver's seat and front console of the Carolla. They are probably caked in honey from a fallen McNugget packet, with likely some pennies and a pear stem or two along for the ride. (I like pears but find the stems a nuisance.) Sue me. 

The pliers will remain with said 01' Carolla until the old man dies.  I didn't mean to steal them, but merely forgot until I heard the tool fall from my pocket into the console crevasse. I think about tossing them whenever I cross a river but can never snatch the things with my fingers in time. The truth is I kind of like knowing they’re there. (And I'm planning a sequel should I win the avant garde contest: Plimpton and Bigfoot Save Columbus Day.)

As the happy birthday song droned on, I caught sight of my father-in-law’s eyes over the flames. Those pliers were deep inside the compartment of his toolbox, stored neatly away on the high shelf under several crab pots. 

They did not fall out by accident.

“This secret knowledge we share between us,” I said to young Charlie as Blue discovered the final clue. “It haunts me.”