Out of Kilter – by Ken Carpenter

More thoughtful than most bathroom scribbler once left a line in a rest area I had reason to visit 20 years ago, and it still pops into my head from time to time.

It was a brief and to the point, but that was not what set it apart. Nor was it the fact that it was bracketed by two even briefer, and more to the point creations concerning the recreational preferences of two females of dubious virtue called Fat Sal and Smelly Sue. Some chivalrous visitor before me, who apparently felt no such loyalty to Sal had scratched out Sue’s phone number.

The next, almost painstakingly printed line, which caught my eye and stuck in my head that day was “Coincidence is the matter of men.” I don’t know to this day if the author claimed this as his own, or if he stole it from another. I do know that it was a defined change of pace from the leavings of those, whose minds and fingers are normally impaired to creativity by having a couple of minutes to sit and think in strange odorous surroundings.

When I first read it, I didn’t know whether to go “huh” or “duh.” It just didn’t fit. I glanced around the stall in search of a punchline in matching print, but all I found was a rude comment concerning the ancestry of my nonexistent, and obviously well-trained goat.

It just occurred to me that I have had such an exciting life I can remember the details of a trip to the bathroom 20 years ago. How dull is that?

Anyway, whoever came up with those words of wisdom said a mouthful, for no truer words were ever spoken. A true, un-orchestrated coincidence has the power to ruin the most organized plan ever devised.

Of course, some people are more susceptible to coincidence than others. Luck is funny that way.

The kind of guy who falls face first into fresh mule dropping and comes up with a sapphire in his teeth, is not the guy you want standing in front of you when you are waiting in line to buy your Lotto ticket. Rest assured, he would get your ticket. If he doesn’t, he’d get mine. Coincidence was my master long before I knew what it was.

A few coincidences once caused my late, favorite uncle’s most embarrassing moment. He and my aunt met a couple in church who were new to their area so just to be sociable they invited them over to their house for coffee. No sooner did the couple arrive than my aunt (wink wink) had to run up to the barn and settle some minor livestock related uproar.

The good folks were left in the normally capable clutches of my uncle, who proceeded to entertain them. When the conversation reached a lull, he offered them a bowl of homemade ice cream. This definitely sounded like a winner to them, and they commented they hadn’t had any in years, and would not soon forget such a kind offer.

Little did they know how right they were. My uncle, quite pleased with himself for his grand idea, whistled his way to the freezer room and grabbed a gallon of his favorite vanilla. He dished up three large bowls suspecting that coincidence number two is now firmly in control of the situation.

It just so happened the day before, my dear aunt had been given a gallon of freshly rendered hog lard which she dutifully placed in the freezer right next to the almost identical, ice cream container. Both of which contained very, very white, very creamy, and very different substance.

My uncle hummed is way back to the kitchen positively glowing with good intentions and place the brimming bowls in front of the eager visitors. He then turned away to grab the coffee pot, and then that instant he missed the now, historic first bites of his guests. The three cups were quickly refilled, and he sank into his chair with it with the satisfied sigh.

He dug in without looking up at his heart, and his heart sank.

Quickly, raising his eyes, he met their tortured expressions with one of his own. The only thing melting quicker than his spirits were the spoonfuls of lard in the mouth of his victims.

“Why,” he said, spitting out his bite, “That’s lard. Lardy, Lardy, Lardy, imagine that.”

While apparently seeing a small amount of humor in the situation, the couple proved incapable of recovering gracefully from the circumstances and after a short, awkward stay, they left. That was their last visit. I do not know if they ever had their ice cream.

My uncle made it known after they left, in no uncertain terms that he was mortified with his wife’s less than satisfactory freezer labeling habits. I can only imagine his opinion of the giggling fit when she was suffering, but he seemed to get over it quite nicely, for the story became one of his favorites after his embarrassment had a chance to die down.

So, in closing, I just want to say that coincidence is, indeed, the master of men as well as women. If you are in control, if you are a control freak, you will be smart to remember that. Just because it was originally (I think) written on a crusty wall next to Fat Sal’s phone number is no reason to ignore a good theory.