My Hero

The TV outdoorsman waves goodbye from a muddy, reptile-infested bog. His eyes sparkle as he smirks at the camera.

I click the remote and glance over at my snoozing husband, safely cradled in his recliner. Sure. He may look helpless right now, especially with those potato chip crumbs dotting his chin.

But beneath that urban exterior lies a true hero. Let me explain.

Three decades ago. I-44. We were sharing a breakfast of powdered donuts and canned soda, bouncing along in the cab of our truck. Billboards lined the highway, begging for attention.

“Visit the EXOTIC ANIMAL PARADISE”, one screamed. “Two miles ahead”. We decided to pop in for a look-see.

We paid our fee and rolled inside. At the first turn, I saw a small poster:

“Your journey will take 60 to 70 minutes. Please maintain a safe speed of 10 mph or less”.

And, “DO NOT GET OUT OF YOUR CAR FOR ANY REASON”.

“Wow!” John spotted a tiger in the distance. I nodded and gulped down the dregs of my Diet Coke, popped open another, and wiped powdered sugar from my face.

Now let me tell you. Ten miles per hour is really slow. It’s almost like moving in reverse. The dirt path ahead squirmed a spaghetti-like trail around clumps of cranky critters, 25 minutes crawled by.

That’s when it happened. I felt it creep toward my consciousness on sharp little claws of pressure.

John was holding the steering wheel with one hand and pointing toward wild animals with the other. I wasn’t looking.

My eyes began to water with excess body fluids. I hated to say it. But I had no choice.

“I gotta go to the bathroom.”

In all the years we’ve been married, I have never seen an expression more complex than the one my husband wore at that moment. His eyeballs scanned my body for possible leakage, studied my face for signs of ill-timed humor, and scoured the cab of the truck for a solution.

There are a lot of ways to show true love. Flowers. Romantic evenings. Wanton glances of desire. And I have seen them all. But let me tell you, friends—I never knew how loved I was until that moment:

John muttered through clenched teeth, dicing the syllables into tiny chunks. Then he spat out his solution.

“There’s a coffee can in the back of the truck.” I watch his shoulders square against the bench seat in resolve.

He glanced in the rearview mirror; studied the areas on either side of the truck. The windows were full of carnivores.

“DON’T TRY IT!” I begged. John’s head twisted toward me on taut tendons of raw, brute bravery.

Then, he uttered the 22 words I will never forget them as long as I live.

“You are not going to pee on the seat of my truck. I have to drive this thing to work every day.”

I saw a true hero that day, friends. John jerked his door open and sprung from the cab of the truck. He galloped toward the back and yanked open the camper shell door.

John’s fingernails scraped against metal. COFFEE CAN! He dumped out the drywall nails and held the can up to the Serengeti sunlight to check for holes. It gleamed rusty red. And intact.

Pride emanated from him as he scrambled back inside the truck and slammed his door. John was safe. So was the seat of his truck. And I was relieved in a multitude of ways.

“Your throne, my sweet.” My husband grinned boyishly; I was tempted to kiss him long and hard...

But instead, I just went.

Sure. Those outdoor adventurers on TV are brave. But when the buffalo chips are down and the pressure mounts, my money is on my coffee can holdin’, critter dodgin’ man who risked life and limb to save his upholstery.

Contact Robin at robingarrisonleach@gmail.com