“Yellow
Bellied”
1313. Translated that’s
1:13 in the afternoon or “Navy time” as Mama calls it. I don’t think she
believes in that cosmic gunk, but she proclaimed 13 her lucky number long ago.
Seems like tempting fate with reverse psychology if you ask me. Anyway that’s
what time I showed up for my birthday shindig.
They were lucky I chose to come at all
that day with the ruckus going on outside my room between the screaming crazy
woman bent on evicting me from my cozy accommodations of the past nine months
and the militant event coordinator who from the sound of it, threatened to have
her locked up for disturbing the peace.
“I
need another shot!” she begged.
“I already gave you one.”
“That was two days ago!” she ranted.
Please. Such drama. It’s my birthday
and Mama’s already hitting the sauce.
“You knew my rules before coming to this
little extravaganza,” he said while she whimpered like a wounded seal pup.
“Nurse Gooch, break out the Saltines. STAT! We have a screamer,” he sighed, as
Mama choked them down.
I don’t know who was in charge of
these refreshments, but these crackers are stale. I was grateful for the
quiet until my landlord Mama came down with the worst case of hiccups while
attempting to push me out of my humble abode. What’s going on? Hey! Stop
that! Help! I’m going be sick.
Suddenly without any warning I was yanked out by the head with what
resembled giant salad tongs and plopped down onto the sheets like an unwanted
potato in the buffet line. Talk about an entrance!
Brrr. I’m freezing. Somebody crank up the heat. There
were paparazzi lights, gasps, and moans from Mama as if I’d come out sideways
wearing pointy tap shoes and a spiked German helmet. What’s that awful smell…cat pee? Kerosene? I haven’t been using my
nose for very long, but I know I don’t like it. No mind, the birthday gal is
here so let’s get this party started.
But I was in for a rude awakening. Instead
of singing Happy Birthday that so-called party planner—Dr. Leonard Drips, U.S.
Navy Obstetrician smacked me on my backside before we were even properly
introduced. Kindly release my ankles and
give me some clothes. I certainly could understand Mama’s hostility toward
this diabolical man.
“Yeow!” I bellowed, my derriere still
stinging, while dangling over my exhausted Mama who was sprawled across the bed
like road kill.
My eyes briefly traveled to the nerdy
physician with the menacing name of Drips and it was certain he was no Elvis.
This being Memphis I’d hoped The King would pop in for my big day, but one look
at this character sporting orange socks despite a strict military dress code,
and as the name implied, suffering from chronic postnasal drip and I knew I was
any place but Graceland. I was in fact so wrapped-up in his appearance
that I hadn’t given much thought to my own until the good doctor dropped the
J-bomb giving me the shock of my life.
“Haven’t seen a case of jaundice this bad
in my en-tire career. Bet she’d glow in the dark,” he declared.
“Look at this yellow baby. It’s like
somebody dumped a bowl of egg salad all over her,” Nurse Gooch exclaimed,
dousing me under the faucet doing her best to scrub me rosy until I thought my
skin would peel off. Then she wrapped me up like a prized grouper in the pink
blanket and placed me into a glass fish tank bed that was anything but comfy.
Jaundice? Glow in the dark? Me?
Perhaps there was something to this 1313 thing after all.
As
fate would have it 1962 marked a new trend for newborns. Out the window went
the old adage of “blue for boys and pink for girls.” Yellow had become the
popular unisex color of the times. My Great-Grandma Cason jumped aboard the
fashion train knitting an entire yellow ensemble for me to wear home from the
hospital. Naturally she had no clue that I’d one-upped her, arriving in style
with my yellow curls, body, and a scrunched yellow face to boot. “Saffron” the
nurse phrased it. Daddy just called it tragic.
My
dutiful Mama obliged Daddy’s grandma and brought me home in the crocheted yellow
outfit, a dead-ringer for an oversized, marshmallow Easter Peep. The
nurses howled, saying, “It’s hard to tell where the gown begins and the baby
ends.” Wonder if Big Bird had the same problem?
Later,
the jaundice long gone, my proud parents took me down to Piney Flats for
Grandma Cason and the rest of the scrutinizing clan to get a good look at me. I
suppose they weren’t overly impressed. It became more apparent as Grandma Cason
and the aunts and uncles shrieked at the sight of me with my bandy legs,
spindly arms, and eel-like body.
“Not much to look at is she?” snooty Aunt Clara-Kay remarked, snatching
me from Mama’s protective arms, inspecting me like a prized bovine on the
auction block. “Doubt she’ll make it through the winter!” she proclaimed,
quickly tossing me back to poor Mama.
How
insulting and from my own kin too. Bet if I were a dog they’d shoot me on the
spot.
“And
what kind of name is that?” Uncle Buford asked, as if Mama named me
something ridiculous like Lassie, Sasquatch, or Cathedral Rotunda.
“I
think it’s a beautiful name.”
“You should’ve named her after her grandmother,” he said.
Strike
one.
“I
did,” Mama defended.
Oops. Strike two.
“But
it’s the wrong grandmother,” Uncle Buford retorted.
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Mama said
bravely.
And you’re out!
It was some
time before we returned to Piney Flats to climb up what I discovered to be a
slightly twisted, “family tree.” Mama later remarked it had 1313 carved all
over it. Did
it ever! Had I known lay ahead I would’ve had all my branches lopped
off. Tim-ber.
Mellie Justad
I write humorous stories about everyday life. My work has
appeared in anthologies, NYMB on Being a Mom, NYMB on Sex, The Storyteller,
Smile, American Humor, Parenting Plus, New England Writers Journal, and
online-- Midlife Boulevard, Midlife Collage, Dew on the Kudzu, and Muscadine Lines.
Please visit me at JUSTADSHUMOR.COM