You are never too old to learn some new blackmailable detail about your spouse .Luckily, statues of limitations for scorching ridicule expire every 10 years or so, depending on the leverage value of the story. Especially when self deprecation is the motif to begin with.
When Mr. Froth was an assistant manager at Burger Chef (something he reiterates daily when I try to cook something like French fries or onion rings-reinforcing my sous-chef position as opposed to his ASSISTANT CHEFFINESS Burger Chef status), he would be the closer of the restaurant on weekends. The restaurant had an off-duty cop stationed there regularly to regulate the massive hordes of out of control teenagers craving Burger Chef goodness, I guess. They were buds.
After Mr. Froth would persuade Booger, a slightly mentally disabled regular to score him some Stite Beer, he’d stash it in the ice machine. The same machine from which he’d fill customers’ soda cups. No. Really. He did.
Well, hell, this was before ebola. Whatever.
He and Bob, the cop, would, after closing, hop into Mr. Froth’s 57 Corvette and cruise. Before cruising they’d empty the remaining ice into the fiberglass convertible top and pop that magnificent aged six pack into it.
Then—they would RRRIDE!
Mr. Froth in his white Assistant Manager pants and white Assistant Manager jacket with his name and the prominent Burger Chef patch on the pocket, reminiscent of a straitjacket and very, very snappy. A studmuffin released from the local institution. Bob in his off duty cop uniform and cop hat. Very snappy, too.
They’d purr up and down Classen—pulling over chickies after Bob would don his hat and shout, “Pull over!”
“So, ya wanna beer?”
Mr. Straitjacket was not a deal closer at the time. Hmmm. There are men in uniform and, well, men in Assistant Manager at Burger Chef uniforms. With their names on their pockets emitting fryolator smells.
A year later Mr. Froth, while home on freshman break from OU, pulled up behind Bob the cop, who was sitting in his squad car giving a ticket, to say hey and Bob asked him how he was doing.
“How you doin’?”
“I’m home on spring break. How YOU doin’?”
“Break? Break?!? How the fuck old are you?!?”
“Um, 18? I’m a freshman at OU?”
“I thought you were 21 last year?!" The radio crackled and he yelled, "What the…here, strap this helmet on and the seatbelt!”
And Bob and Mr. Froth took off on a high speed chase at 4 g’s to some accident or other, with Bob reflecting on his fortunately undiscovered contribution to the delinquency of a minor.
This could not happen today, you realize.