Trevor, the big-headed baby.
I can’t remember when I wrote this - when Larry King was still on television and my back was still bad - both have moved on. Enjoy. Or rather: danke schoen, darling, danke schoen.
So my back feels like Larry King looks and I return to the chiropractor to be cracked in a way that sounds like someone walking on old acorns. I’ve let it simmer too long this time, necessitating the use of their masseuse prior to the adjustment, which I’m not unhappy about because it’s a massage!
I learn that medical massages are not spa massages and mine is performed by a great hairy man with asthma.
After pulverizing my butt, the masseuse moves to my head. I make my standard stock comment about my having a big head, which I do, and I hate it when my friends stock comment back to me is: no you don’t. It’s like I just asked if my butt looks big in these jeans and the answer is of course not.
Anyway, I digress. I mention my big head and the masseuse wheezes: “Oh, that’s nothing. My best friend, he’s got a head like Frankenstein – biggest head I ever saw.” This is going to be fun, I think to myself, although it usually always is because the chiropractor who runs this joint is a Frank Sinatra impersonator by night and has framed pictures of himself shaking hands with people like Wayne Newton all over the office. The masseuse continues: “So you know he gets married and they have a baby named Trevor and I’m there when he is born – so is my daughter. Sure enough they bring Trevor out to see us and he’s got this gigantic head. My daughter said Daddy is that a water head baby? I had to shush her, but it truly was a site to behold.
“Then," he continues, "we’re at the house for dinner one night and there’s a crash, sounds like a bag of bowling balls being dropped upstairs. We all run up and see Trevor’s crib has collapsed. Trevor is on the floor howling. His daddy picks him up while his mom and I reset all the screws. Poor Trevor, his daddy says, did your big head get the best of you buddy? Then he looks up at me: it messes with his balance.”
We both laugh hysterically and inappropriately.
Of course if the inappropriate door is opened, I run in: Did she have a c-section, I ask, when Trevor was born?
"Nope. It was natural. And she had two more afterwards." The head massage continued in silence for a moment. Then: "I guess Trevor cleared the path."