In fourth grade we got to have a class party. Our teacher had never let us have a party before and we were all excited. There would be cookies and pop and we were going to play games and everything.
We went outside and had fun playing four-square, kickball, and other games, then came inside. Our teacher poured us all soft drinks into small Dixie cups. I chose Orange Crush. I liked that deep bright orange color.
Sitting at my desk drinking my tiny cup of pop, a private and misguided thought occurred to me: if I put a tiny pinhole in the cup, when the teacher poured me a second cup it would trickle out and make a little puddle! And further, I could then move away from the little puddle and deny all responsibility of it! I would be the class clown, and all the other kids would think I was hilarious to have pulled off such a trick. Brilliant!
But what to use for the hole? I looked cautiously around. There wasn’t much to work with, except a pencil. Quickly I grabbed the pencil and made my incision, then called out, a little too loudly, “Uh, Mrs. Clark! Can I have some more pop, please?” Everything was going great so far; she didn’t suspect a thing! “Sure, Tommy,” my teacher said, and she started to pour. I stifled a laugh.
It was right about this point that my plan began to take a bad turn. In my inexperience with such schemes, I had made the hole way too big. As soon as she started pouring, the pop began to gush straight through the obvious hole at the bottom of my cup, causing a giant reservoir of Orange Crush to form just beneath my hand. Everybody saw what was happening and wondered why in the world I had instigated such a stupid, senseless act.
My crowning moment of glory, when my unparalleled brilliance and comic mastery would finally be recognized and celebrated by all, would have to wait another day.
I’m still waiting.