Just a week ago Friday I was on the lam—and if you're wondering where this expression came from, you're in good company. Check this New York Times Magazine piece on the origin—but don't say I sent you.
Here's how it happened. Lately, I just hate to be left behind. Mom and Dad were planning an outing. I knew all the signs: Dad put on real shoes; Mom brushed her teeth.
I pulled my first trick: asking to go outside when I really didn't need to. I ran around, willy-nilly (there's another origin for you to guess; goes way back to 1608), easily eluding capture.
I was just warming up.
Dad managed to shoo me inside; I'm not sure how. Then it was time to move to Step 2 of my Evil Plan: push past Dad, evoking past Boston College great running back Andre Williams, and get into the garage. I dropped my shoulder and shoved.
Dad gave up on the garage, where I knew Mom was waiting in the getaway car. Except that no one was getting away without me.
So when Dad tried to get out the front door, I did a replay: dropped my shoulder, pushed past, and—out to freedom.
I jumped off my neighbor's garden wall to the ground—an eight-foot drop, but I'm a pro at that. I've always wanted to explore the steep hillside that runs down to Shore Road. Usually I'm in too much of a hurry, but with my parents hobbled by darkness, I had all the time in the world.
After I nosed around, I went over to the mulch business, then checked out the horse store on Rte. 9. Closed. Drat. So I hightailed it down Rte. 9 (staying on the sidewalk). I wasn't really paying attention to anything but the warm breeze and good scents.
When I looked up after stopping to sniff something really good, a dragnet of Mom in one car, Dad in another and some guys in their truck surrounded me. Before I knew it, I was in shackles.
|Like any good prisoner, I'm always looking for an out.|