Beware the Bargain - nmm

One morning, while visiting my parents, I was in my bedroom dressing when I heard a loud raucous noise. It sounded like it was coming from upstairs, possibly my parents’ bedroom. I couldn’t tell what it was or even if it was human voice. Concerned, I threw on my robe and ran upstairs to investigate.

From the hallway I could see my parents in their bedroom facing each other. I paused to observe. My mother, dressed in underwear and slip, sat at the foot of the bed, hunched over, head in her hand. She was shaking. My father, dressed for work in suit pants, white shirt, and dark tie, stood in front of her. His head and shoulders drooped; his eyes looked down at her. The noise came from Mom.

I had never seen my parents like this. It looked almost like a stage scene of the aftermath of a domestic violence incident, the man contrite as he asks his wife forgiveness. But my father is not violent; he isn’t even good at arguing. And Mom would more likely be hostile if they’d had a fight. So that explanation vanished. But obviously something had occurred between them and I wasn’t sure it was wise for me to get involved. I crept forward cautiously.

When they heard me approach, Dad straightened his head and shoulders, turned slightly to face me, glanced at me, then looked back down at Mom. The look on his face was difficult to interpret. His mouth stretched wide in what could have been either grimace or a grin. The rest of his face was blank, in either chagrin or suppressed laughter. Mom lifted her head and turned it toward me. Tears streamed down her contorted face.

Mom attempted to regain her composure. Between gasps for air she spoke. “Your father was in Sears the other day and passed a table with a sign that said items on the table cost fifty cents. You know your father, he can’t resist a bargain. He rummaged through everything and found a pair of boxer shorts. They were folded and in a sealed wrapper so he couldn’t see what he was getting.” The last words were barely decipherable as she was overtaken with convulsive laughter. She put her head back in her hand to stabilize herself.

Dad slowly turned around in a comedic Charlie Chaplin style to show me his backside. There, on his posterior, through the suit pants, I could see stenciled on the boxer shorts a large red octagon with white letters in the center: S T O P.

I hooted. Mom raised her head enough to look at me. Still laughing so hard she could barely talk, she managed to squeak, “I’ve been telling him his suits were threadbare but he wouldn’t believe me.”