But the truth is, yanking that thing out with a pair of tweezers was the last thing that came to mind when I spotted Tom Stafford across waiting room of our dentist’s office.
I just laughed and said “Hey” as though he were a long lost, well, relative.
Despite the complications we’ve caused in one another by having nearly identical names (our middle names differ), we’ve enjoyed yacking with one another since he moved in two doors down on the same side of the street 20 or so years ago.
That’s about the time several Springfield letter carriers were sidelined with pulled muscles when they found themselves stopping in mid-stride to turn around, then stopping and turn in in the other direction as they tried to decide which letter went with which Tom Stafford.
A couple of them transitioned to jobs in over-the-road trucking.
One told me she wondered why Satan had put us so close together.
I told her I’d change my name to cut down on the confusion, but my wife was much more sensitive about being called Mrs. Occupant than I’d expected and haven’t seen the former letter carrier since.
Shortly after Tom moved in, I began referring to the Rite-Aid where the two of us bought our prescriptions as Wrong-Aid. I moved on to Never-Will-Be-Rite Aid when after three polite requests to straighten out the bills went unanswered.
From then on, I figured if his insurer covered my bills and mine covered his, it was a wash (that’s “warsh,” to several of my friends.)
Over the years, Tom has kept up with me in the paper and I with him through various people who have asked me if I had been elected to the council at St. Raphael Church (no), was still a swim or softball coach (never have been) or whether my wife and I had split (nope).
I mention this potentially sore subject only because of my fond recollections of the day l learned that Tom’s child support was being withheld from my check.
This was discovered the day my wife asked me for the fifth time to check why my pay had decreased as soon as I’d begun working a fair chunk of overtime.
A buddy of mine in payroll explained. Told me “It’s your garnishment.
“For what?” I asked.
When she responded, “child support,” I told her the truth: “My wife will be interested in hearing that little nugget.”
From a longer story best told over a bucket of beer, here are two things I’ll never forget.
1. The laugh of the lady at the Child Support Enforcement Agency when I told her that if I had to pay child support, I would be demanding visitation.
2. The ingenious copy editor at the News-Sun who clipped a picture that had recently run in the paper of Tom’s daughter, then a state-level cross country and track runner. The attached note said to a note read: “This picture never would have made the paper if this weren’t your daughter.”
Which is why it should have been obvious to me when I saw Tom in the reception room at our dentist’s office that something had gone the way of my ear hair.
That we had both had received software-generated text reminders of our joint dental appointment was a milestone in our relationship: The first time artificial intelligence had been involved in something going off the tracks.
After my dental office pal Marilyn had nearly scratched a hole in her head before telling me it was really Tom’s appointment, I let him sit in the dental chair and took the regular chair exam room, telling dental assistant, “We’ll just let the dentist decided who’s going to be treated first, won’t we?”
I left before the man with the plyers appeared, fearing that even if I won the argument, I might end up having Tom’s teeth yanked out of my mouth — and don’t tell me that couldn’t happen.
In the waiting room before all this stuff, we had time to notice the few additional barnacles each of us has accumulated added over the years and to catch up on major life events.
The biggest news is that that Tom, who’s a few years younger than me, is in his first year of retirement, a decision hastened by a girl in one of his elementary school gym classes who told him she was going to have one her uncles to kick a part of Tom’s anatomy.
That had me walking out the door wondering where I could get an “I am not Tom Stafford the Teacher” t-shirt on short notice.
In the next moment I wondered how many “I am not Tom Stafford who writes for the paper” t-shirts he has accumulated by now.
Because I could really use one of those.
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