Topsfield Scare

Anyone who has ever walked with me down at the North End or shuffled with me through a bustling mall knows that if you do not keep me within sight of eye, soon I will be without it.

Understandably Jenn gets a bit frustrated and at times considers this to be a somewhat nerve-racking experience, but what must have been an even more nerve-racking experience is what happened to my evanescent chaperone:

When I was about Eight years old - old enough to know better, yet I still don’t know better - I got lost at the Topsfield Fair. Though I don’t remember all of the details, I do remember a great barn, and inside the great barn were peddlers of various wares, like snake oil (just kidding), but really: honey of bee, still in its wax; and glue of super; and an evolving table full of Die-Cast chariots morphing into binarily autonomous bots! Outside I remember a mighty steed, and along his mighty side was an authoritative figure, petting Nitro’s mane, and wearing boots, black boots…with straps, he peered, seemingly, through his Aviators, and his dark blue uniform was crisp, pinned, with a shiny metallic shield over his chest, and he wore a magnificent holster which secured not only his pants, but also a Colt .45, Silver! Away…

Could any of these have lured me like the Lorelei’s Siren? Or had another alarm, like that of the Burning Banjos Quartet, smokescreened my senses such that blind faith followed? What was I or was I thinking?

Just ask my friend Brian what he was thinking after I had walked away from him. Oh, and don’t forget to ask him how went the date? That’s right, whilst courting a prospective helpmeet, Brian looked left and I left right wandering off to talk to the cop with the horse or to manipulate the Transformers or something, and it subsequently took hours before I would be recovered.

However nice it was of Brian to accept my invitation to have me briefly accompany him and his fare lady (at least I would like to think that it was nice; maybe he was merely trying to take home the prize for Best in Show) and squash any chance of visiting the kissing booth (or was that where he was the whole time while I was unwittingly winning the Freelance Daredevil competition?) Whoever knows what came from it or would have come had he declined?

If not his genuine niceness that caused him to accept, then the next more surer appeasement against which I lean is that the fiery winds of fate must have intervened; fore Brian now is one of Arlington’s Finest, a selfless crusader who saves lives and who ended up winning the American Dream (complete with great wife and kids.) Inevitably I am consoled by the thought of each and by my final fair-scare solace: I was his first rescue?

Brian, thanks for finding me, and thanks for the memorable solo-mission.

~~Chatter Chop