Solomon's Gold

It just so happens that an in-house conflict had arisen--that is to say no one could agree on where to go for the day’s recreation.  The wife opted for the beach, while one son and two daughters voted for a cabin in the woods, a theme park, and the gas-saving option of a stay-at-home video game experience.  What offspring matched up with what is neither here nor there; I was end-witted, in need of split-end conditioner for the whole of self, in serious desire for wisdom I lacked.  In short, I needed a wise king, a Solomon to reconcile this destination bickering, a sage to keep together a family feuding as to where fun would out.

At first I entertained the thought of threatening to cut the car into fourths and allowing each of them one wheel and a makeshift seat.  But I kept that thought to myself; alas, such moralistic symbolism would be no doubt lost.  Moreover, the disconcerting image of my new white Ford Fusion going off in pieces was not one which I could be at peace.

(There’s an incongruity for you--cutting a Fusion.  Phrases and words at odds; they mean well, but they are in conflict--sort of like said household!)

My youngest, Atari, sat composed on a brown ottoman with a wry smirk holding a red tablet.  He had said his piece, but was now strangely silent--he seemed to know that without a resolution, he would win by default. 

“Listen, everyone,” I chimed, interrupting a pots and pans clamor of differing heartfelt wants as to what road would ultimately be taken:

“You know, if we do not get this resolved, then he wins.”

I pointed at Atari, whose nonchalance piqued my suspicion.  Could he be wiser than I had credited him? I wondered.  I was irritated with frustration, yet I was also proud.

C’mon man, I urged myself, I am not mere flotsam nor the tremulousness of a titmouse--I am husband, father, purveyor of decision with a level head, albeit humble and far from virtue‘s paragon.  The thought of drawing straws came to mind, but it was dismissed summarily due to its primitive and lackluster sloth--that may have been good enough for Gilligan’s Island, for story-themed survival amidst tropical storm, but for this instance of family crisis, for this nuclear summit boiling in the cauldron of squabble, straws strained credibility.  I needed more.  Yea, I longed for regal robes with spear-bearers bronzed in brawn.  I required stately ken distilled through the ages, accentuated by Incan idols and picturesque temples.  I necessitated the wealth of a cogent and sapient mind wherein all would breathe gladly with any sullen dogs freely unleashed.  I needed Solomon’s gold.

Listen to this bicker, I thought. It is clear and present dander erector, it is sibling inevitability, is it right of passage among brother, sister, the clan so presented by Cupid’s arrow and the soon after forthrightness of biological frankness.  Should they present their cases?  Dare I enable such a farce of oration, be it so mundane as to be no more than a slouch of selfish hankering?  The court would track mud on the clean carpet of justice, and those found innocent would still feel as if they were jailed.  Oh Solomon, where art thou, oh Solomon?

Venice Beach, Disneyland, the mountains of Big Sur--all were fine with me, but each and every lobbyist in house held to their own sway; they locked in to their own recreational predilection as if doomsday were to arrive at the dawn.  And all the while Atari, cool as a freshly shaven chin splashed with Old Spice, sat like a Buddhist monk, legs crossed, engrossed in whatever game he happened to be immersed.

I was shot-dropped, out of ideas, a drone deprived of its buzz.  I was ready to kick conchs at the beach, or gnaw the redwoods of inland Sur--it did not matter.  In the absence of any bend, this was a house tense for the moment, a shear and fragile abode wherein break was sure to be.  There was no pleasing everyone.

Until it hit me that impossibilities exist, and this was one of them.  The surest way to failure is trying of please everyone.  I had heard that, somewhere, long ago.  Once I accepted that, I stopped trying to do the impossible.  Such a realization was a glimmer of gold.

I explained such around the table at Olive Garden, which is where we ended up.  No beach, no Disneyland, no Big Sur.  Just a quiet, sedate, and reflective dinner.  Atari munched a breadstick, minus his red tablet.  No, there was no tablet, and all the smart phones were left in the car.

It was the re-introduction of conversation; it was the re-acquaintance of compromise.


792 Words
Writer’s Cramp
12-4-15