Memories of Getting Away With Fowl Play
When I was 6 years old, my mother washed my mouth out with a bar of Dove soap and sat me on the bathroom sink, soap mustache and all, to think about what I’d done.
For the third time that week I had smuggled one of our baby chicks, bullied by the others, into my bedroom for extra attention. An hour later, the poop stains on the rug sold me out, and there I was looking up at my mother and willing myself to be sorry.
“Have you learned your lesson?” she asked sternly, hands on hips. I sighed and looked at the ground. “I will never ever do it again,” I said, cracking a smile. Then I blew a Dove soap bubble into the air and, before the both of us, it popped.
Twelve years later, freshman year of college, I sat in my Honda Civic directly outside my dorm and called my floor mate inside. “Pat, I need to sneak in something onto the seventh floor and could use your smuggling experience.”
Pat, being something of a party animal, was very good at sneaking prohibited items right past the nose of the front desk staff and up into the dorms.