Sometimes I am a Smartass

Those who know me well would agree that sometimes, on occasion, when the timing is right and the mood is appropriate, I can be a bit of a smartass. Other times, when it is slightly less appropriate, I can be a complete smartass. There is an art to being a successful smartass. It doesn’t just happen. You grow into it and refine your craft over the years. Mistakes get made. You learn. Success depends on the right combination of timing, wit and judgement. Miss any of those three and you’ve crossed the blurry line from smartass to jackass. When this happens it hurts. The real hurt you feel way down deep in that special place where you cry just on the inside—like when you horribly misjudge the mood your wife is in. That one can be a catastrophe. Or, so I’ve read.

It nearly happened to me the other night when my wife asked “Where’s the salad dressing”. Apparently “In the Salad Dressing Room” was NOT what she was hoping to hear.

A few months ago I made a large purchase. The bill was significant for a guy on parental leave with no job prospects at the time. The cashier politely asked me how I would be paying. As I handed her my debit card I twisted my face into the most painful, theatrical grimace I could muster and said “Painfully. Sort of like this. And I was thinking of maybe holding my breath too.” Unfortunately, her laughter did not prevent her from processing the transaction.

A few years ago I was starting a new job, filling out the usual “new guy” paper work. Among the various HR forms was an information sheet which asked “Who should we contact in case of Emergency, and where can we reach them?”

I wrote “Ambulance. 9 – 1 - 1”.

The very next question asked if there were any special medical conditions I wanted to make them aware of. I indicated that “If I am ever incapacitated, kindly remove my contact lenses and place a nicotine patch on me. Not necessarily in that order”.

They later changed their forms, and I later quit smoking, now everybody’s happier.

Finally, then, I give you my all time favourite smart ass story…
It was about 8 years ago, in Sault Saint Marie, Ontario. There was a family wedding there that weekend, and my father and I were crossing the border to Sault Michigan for a stag event. It was just the two of us in the Ford Station Wagon. As we rolled up to the long line my Dad said “So, we’re going to a birthday party, right?” It was the up-talking tone he takes that says ‘wink, wink, nudge, nudge, know what I mean?’ Naturally, I pretended I didn’t. “Nope. It’s a stag party, remember?” He repeated himself, but with more emphasis on the final word.

“Rrrrighttttt?”

“Okay Dad, you’re the boss, whatever you say.”

Clearly he was nervous. I’m not sure if was because we were heading to a party, or because he thought I looked like a hydroponic farmer. I had a shaggy beard and hair half way down my back, tied in a pony tail. And I lived in Vancouver.

He pulled out his 3 inch think old-guy wallet to locate his ID. As the car inched closer to the border he got increasingly nervous about the fact that he couldn’t find his Birth Certificate. The wallet flipping continued as he enumerated the cards he did have. Visa, Club Z card, Auto Club, Canadian Tire Card, Driver’s License, but no Birth Certificate.

I should mention at this point that I not only had my Birth Certificate out, but my work ID as well. Something told me it might help. At that time I was a Social Worker for Child Protective Services with the Province of British Columbia. So at least one government felt I was reasonably trustworthy.

Finally, it was our turn. The Border Guard asked our destination and reason for our visit. Dad stated it was to attend a birthday party. The Agent asked who the party was for. Dad provided the name, and was then asked how we knew him. “He’s marrying my daughter” Dad said, as he left out the word “tomorrow”. Next he asked us where we were both born: “Chatham, Ontario” and “Chatham, Ontario”. He asked where we reside now: “Vancouver, BC” and “mweh, eh, Buh. Cheh. Kitchener”

To this day I have no idea why the sound of “Vancouver” left Dad so flustered. But it did. The next sound we heard was the Boarder Guard asking us for ID. I passed him my Birth Certificate. Dad re-engaged his opposable digit in the wallet flip exercise as he half heartedly asked “sure, what do you need?” The guard was looking at my ID but said “proof of Citizenship…. Richard. Have you ever been fingerprinted?”

Ever the co-operator I clearly declared “Yes sir, as a matter of fact I have.”

It was at that instant that the wallet flipping finally ceased. The blood rushed from Dad’s cheeks so quickly, you could almost hear it. He sat looking at me in slack jawed horror. His eyes though, his eyes were the most telling feature. They were wide, and just a little moist. They were the eyes of a man who would swear he had actually just heard the snap of a rubber glove being prepared for a body cavity search.

It should be noted that the men and women of the United States Border Patrol do NOT skimp on quality. They are issued the finest equipment. The snap my father heard was not the tiny elastic snap like that made by the type of rubber bands you steal from the office supply cupboard. No, this had resonance; depth; volume! Like the sound made by those rubber bands around lobster claws and bunches of broccoli. The sound they make echoes off the stainless steel walls of the search chamber. Or, so I’ve read, at least.

The officer asked me why I had been finger printed. As I handed him my work Identification I said “For this”. He took a quick glance and asked “what’s this, your driver’s license?”

“No sir, it’s my work ID. I’m a Child Protective Services Investigator for the Province of British Columbia”.

As he handed me back my identification he stepped back and said “very well, have a nice visit, and drive safely please.”

It took my father another half a second to register the fact that we’d just been waved through. Crisis averted. As we pulled away from the border post I asked him “So Dad, are we still on schedule, or do you think we missed the birthday cake?”