I have never been so pleased about April 1. It took a while for me to get down to being that pleased, since I have been looking over my shoulder with a degree of furtiveness to make sure that I am not caught unawares, as I usually am, by the day when practical jokes and smart aleck gags tend to be my lot. It is not that I am stupid or completely unintelligent; it is just that I never see it coming and get slimed…in a manner of speaking, of course. But this year it happened on a Sunday and I was nabbed by only one person: my father. And he knows how I feel about it, and was therefore exceedingly kind in yanking my leg neatly out from under me.
It was painless and easy, cashing in on one of my paranoias. Bugs. Almost everyone who knows me knows that I do the jump-and-run routine when a bug happens to cross my path…or doesn’t, in this particular case. I was groggily sipping at my morning mug of green tea with Small Cat rooting around under the dining table, when Father looked sharply up at a spot above my head and announced with much solemn seriousness: bug. In my usual poised and polished manner, I jumped…right out of my chair. I also ran…right out of the room. And when I peeked around the door to find out if aforementioned bug had been politely shown out the window, I found Father chortling, with Small Cat looking suspiciously as if she was muffling an attack of the giggles, sitting on the dining table and staring bug…err…big-eyed in my direction.
Happy April Fool’s, they wished me.
It hasn’t always been this kind. There have been moments of greater agony, when I have been left wondering what hit me, though not literally, thank god. People have told me about telephone calls that I could have been waiting for, given me presents that were actually useful (like glue - why?) and scared me with assorted wildlife, primarily bugs. So over the years, on April 1, I tend to start looking furtive, peek over my shoulder at the least provocation and jump higher than I normally would on any other day of the year. Every year I tell myself that I will have nerves of steel on that day, brace myself for whatever may happen and make sure that I am not at all surprised, startled or otherwise, by anything that anybody is likely to dish out.
I had all the steel ready and willing to go this year, too. But someone up there had a special surprise in store for me. The night before, as I was tidying my room, a large and curious moth fluttered a little too close for comfort. Being my usual brave self where small and fragile winged creatures were concerned, I shrieked and fled, strewing pillows, books and the air-conditioning remote in my wake. Small Cat sat sleepily up in her basket; Father looked up from his crossword and I screamed my distress in what I later replayed as a rather pathetic squeak. Chuckling and making unwontedly sarcastic remarks, the family went on an expedition of exploration, my demand being for them to catch the flying beast and send it on its way outside the house. I then sat myself on the couch and waited for the mayhem to subside.
After a while, I went to tentatively investigate. Father was putting off lights, while Small Cat rooted in a corner behind my planter’s chair and muttered enquiringly to herself. Soon after, she came galloping out of my room, in hot pursuit of the moth, which came to a fluttering halt somewhere near my feet. I did the jump-and-run routine with magnificent grace, leaping for my bedroom door while Father and Small Cat routed the moth.
So, in essence, the stage had been set for future fright, which happened successfully the next morning. Could you possibly blame me for becoming the April’s fool, once again?
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