Coming Clean

Messing with a fellow’s secretly-hidden stash of midnight snacks may not be high crime and treason, but it demands retribution. Confession is a start.

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Secrets hide in strange spaces…I recently spotted evidence of one hiding at the bottom of the kitchen trash can. It lay in a crumpled mass, barely distinguishable, beneath some chicken bones and covered with a black shroud of soggy coffee grounds. Secrets can hide anywhere.

I was livid to say the least. I had salivated all day thinking about a late-night snack, only to find that a heartless intruder had beaten me to it. Justice must prevail…someone must pay.

Listen, secrets are volcanoes. There’re volatile. Eruptions happen, even though they may smoke and smolder for a long time. Remember the Clinton ‘Bimbo eruption’? Gennifer Flowers showed up in 1992. Truth prevails.

The exposure of secrets is random. Many think a computer App, ‘Master Mind,’ is responsible. With a court jester icon, it stirs up the disgusting details of our lives and previews them in an ethereal Youtube. Somebody up there is laughing! We think we’re safe, then, vroom, an eruption occurs.

Take my friend Bob, for example. He sorely lacks common sense. He mentioned to his wife he’d lost his new Polo pajamas. One day a UPS package arrived. His wife opened it. It was the heart-shaped note that caught her attention. It simply read, “Honey, you left these. Hurry back.” It was signed “K.” An eruption occurred. Bob currently lives in a mobile home in Nahunta.

I pleaded with my household for the responsible party to come clean. My wife said, “Get a life;” my daughter avoided eye contact. We have two dogs. They can’t be ruled out. I interrogated them, too.

One dog, Mac, eats everything remotely similar to food. Just this morning he ate a cup cake wrapper. I asked him about it, but he was silent on the matter. A couple of hours later he came clean, so to speak. His answer lay steaming on the back porch. Eruptions happen.

Children, especially teens, perfect early on how to dodge ‘fessing up without full disclosure. They arrive home late at night with hang-dog looks, their breath reeking of heavy doses of Listerine and their clothes soaked with Lysol. Masking truth has its moments.

Later in life their guilt-ridden conscience prevails upon them to lay bare their youthful indiscretions so they can sleep better. They transfer these grievous burdens onto their parents who can’t sleep and who lie awake lamenting the perils of parenting. Some truths need no resurrection!

Fishermen are among the worst about coming clean with secret proclivities. My mother kept in the back hall a wooden plaque as a reminder to my father. It pretty much sums up many of his excursions. It read:

“Behold, the fisherman.
He riseth early in the morning and upsetteth the whole household.
Mighty are his preparations.
He goeth forth with great hope in his heart—and when the day is far spent
he returneth, smelling of strong drink, and the truth is not in him.”

Some truths are self-evident.

Yesterday the mystery of the trash-can caper came to light. I set a trap, put new bait in the freezer and hid in the closet. I waited. About 12:30 AM a dark ghost resembling a woman shambles silently into the kitchen, opens the freezer and removes something. The skulking phantom stumbles to the drawer for a spoon. The dark figure wrestles momentarily with the object.

Soon deep sighs of immense pleasure break the kitchen silence. The figure becomes animated in a fitful lust for the container’s contents. I switch on the light. The brilliance startles her. She stands there like a common criminal, caught in the very act.

She holds a half-eaten pint of Ben and Jerry’s Cherries Garcia in one hand and a large spoon in the other. A tiny trail of white ice cream trickles down her chin. It’s my daughter.

If a man were caught like this, he would spew out a quick but stupid response. “Am I sleep walking? Where am I?” But not my daughter. She just stands there like an angel and grins. We both laugh. My heart melts along with the ice cream. She shares what’s left.

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I thought about confessing my own obsessions, but the words wouldn’t come. Anyway, sharing a secret pint of midnight ice cream will reconcile anyone.

Besides, love overcomes a multitude of sins!

Bud Hearn
August 23, 2013