The Right Excuses

I hate this assignment.

I hate this assignment.

I hate this assignment.

Charlotte stares at what she typed on the computer. She’s regressed to fourth-grade behavior because of this project. After backspacing and erasing the words from the screen, she gets up from her desk and heads to the kitchen. Coffee. Need coffee.

Leaning against the kitchen island, she looks out the window above the sink and thinks as she sips. She has to write a humorous short story for her creative writing class. The teacher distributed the assignment a week ago, and it’s due in two days. In the past five days, Charlotte paid her bills, made two grocery trips, scheduled a dentist appointment, and completely cleaned her house, including the fridge and toilet! She did things she’s been putting off for months to avoid this assignment. But it goes against her nature to procrastinate until the very last minute. She must write this today.

She considered going to class empty-handed and classically blaming her missing homework on a dog, but she doesn’t own a dog and doubts any sensible canine would chew on her paper. However, there are plenty of dogs in the neighborhood. Maybe she could tempt Fido if she rubbed the pages with a little steak, but the only meat-like items in her house are some Impossible Burgers. She inwardly curses her strict vegetarianism.

She knows she’s not funny. Never has been, never will be. She flubs the punchlines of jokes. She attempts to relate a humorous story, and it falls flat. Once in a while, she interjects a successful, humorous quip into a conversation, but that’s about it. Several years ago, when she steadfastly and efficiently managed a small office, one of her part-time employees was astonished to catch her laughing. The woman told her that she didn’t think Charlotte had a sense of humor! That was a hard landing on her well-hidden funny bone.

Charlotte suddenly had an idea on how to spur her inspiration. Setting down her coffee, she opens the basement door and walks down into the shadowy, dusty gloom. Digging into an old box, she tosses aside mementos and yearbooks from her school days and pulls out her grandfather’s old Underwood typewriter and a couple of carefully stored ribbons. Tucking the precious ribbons into her sweater pocket, she carries the heavy device upstairs. She places the old relic on her dining room table and removes the off-white dust cover. He gave her this typewriter in his will, “to spark her imagination.” She never understood that comment, but maybe he knew her better than she knew herself.

As she installs the ribbon, memories of her grandfather come flooding back. A true gentleman, he was always soft-spoken and polite, yet a mischievous glint shone in his eyes. He was an architect by trade, but a writer at heart. Every free moment, he spent pecking away at his beloved typewriter. He wrote humorous stories for her and her cousins, illustrating them with his swift, deft sketches. Once captivated by his outrageous tales of fearless exploration, rollicking adventure, and funny little green men from Mars, her imagination eventually withered under the weight of life’s daily monotony. Now she wished she had kept those stories, but she lost them a long time ago.

After winding paper onto the roller and under the platen, she sat down and attempted to channel her grandfather’s voice.

On a dark and stormy night, lightning struck the Martian while he was performing stand-up comedy.

Groaning, she rips out the paper and inserts a new one. Think, Charlotte, think. She recalls the stories her father told her. He was a bit of a practical joker in his youth. Maybe she could steal one of those for her assignment. Putting her hands on the keys, she types: Ricky crept into his annoying older sister’s room while she was out with friends. He carried a piece of cardboard and a spool of thin black thread. After stuffing the cardboard between the pages of a large, heavy book on the shelf above Ellie’s desk, he carefully snaked the dark string behind the desk, along the wall, out into the hallway along the edge of the carpet into his room next door. Then, he waited until nighttime. He was very patient. Once her soft snores confirmed she was asleep, he pulled the thread. The book fell to the floor with a crash! Startled awake, Ellie screamed loudly. Their parents ran into her room to see what was wrong. Quickly, Ricky pulled the thread and cardboard back into his room and dived under the covers, the perfectly innocent baby of the family.

Dad laughed himself silly while telling this tale, remembering his prank and Ellie’s reaction. With tears streaming down his eyes, he told me that for weeks she swore the house was haunted.

Charlotte examines her writing and lets out a sigh. First, it’s not long enough to meet the assignment’s requirements. Second, it’s not truly funny. She never asked Aunt Ellie what she thought of her brother’s pranks, but Charlotte is confident that her aunt didn’t find them as amusing as her brother did.

Setting that page aside, Charlotte rolls in another blank sheet of paper and thinks back to her childhood. Mom was always a bit off. As a child, she was only told that Mom had problems with depression, but Charlotte recalled some odd, highly spirited moments with her mother.

With a slight smile, Charlotte remembered one unusually pleasant event with Mom. They were in the kitchen, Mom washing the dishes, Charlotte drying. Suddenly, Mom turns the sprayer on the sink at Charlotte. Delighted and startled, young Charlotte giggled, snatched the wand from her mother, and sprayed her back. A short water battle ensued, wetting the floor, the cabinets, the table, and their Shetland Sheepdog, who scrambled quickly from the room. The dog looked back from the doorway with an expression of doggie astonishment.

Moments like this were rare enough to have etched themselves in her brain. With Mom frequently non-functional on the living room sofa, Charlotte had to assume responsibilities beyond her years. She learned to be self-sufficient, rarely asking for help. But a side effect of all that independence was a fear of failure. She stayed firmly within the boundaries of her proven methods, never branching out. Taking this creative writing class was her first step toward finally shaking loose the constraints of her upbringing. If only she could complete this assignment.

With the sunlight streaming through the willow tree outside, Charlotte watched the ever-changing shapes of sunlight and shadow on the dining room wall, seeking visual inspiration to awaken her stultified imagination. She thought again about why her grandfather bequeathed his typewriter to her. Perhaps he understood that one day she would look for a way out from under her buttoned-up life. She recalled showing him her childish attempts at poetry and the English papers that had received high marks. Grandpa knew back then that she had the seed of a writer within her and wanted to nurture that, no matter how long it took.

With a deep and satisfied breath, Charlotte stood and patted the old typewriter fondly. Thanks, Grandpa, she whispered. Back at her computer, she quickly typed up the story of her days of procrastination and reawakening. The final product might not perfectly align with the terms of the assignment, but allowing herself some imperfections felt liberating.