Page 49 of Blame it on the Bet
Bryan pays the bill at the counter while I slip back into my parka. There’s a line of people waiting to get in, as usual, so I decide to wait for him on the sidewalk. Outside, I catch sight of Jameson coming toward me, pushing Jackson in the stroller and waving.
“Jeez, James, you’ve got him bundled up like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man,” I giggle when she’s within earshot. “Well, we’re not even getting into the double digits today,” my sister informs me, her breath forming frosty white clouds to prove her point. “I was just down at the post office and saw you coming out,” she explains.
“I can’t believe how cheap that bill was! You know, in L.A., that same—” Bryan stops short when he joins me out front and finds my sister there, too.
“And who’s this?” he asks, squatting so that he’s eye level with the baby’s stroller.
“Bryan, this is my nephew, Jackson,” I tell him. “But you know…he’s not always great with strangers…”
Bryan shakes his head dismissively. “Oh no, kids love me,” he informs us.
Before I can advise him against it, he’s in Jackson’s face, gushing animatedly.
“Well, hey there, big guy. I’m Bryan. Can you say Bryan?” He looks at the stranger shyly, nibbling on a bagel. “Do you like the yummy bagel, Jackson?” Bryan continues in baby talk.
That’s when Jax ditches his bashfulness, sits up straight and starts to giggle.
“Bryan…”
It’s a warning. One he doesn’t heed.
“I guess I’m speaking his language.” He grins up at me.
“Bryan, really, I wouldn’t get in his face.”
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Jax!” the toddler exclaims in an excited, slurry voice. Those of us who know Jackson know that it’s a very dangerous voice. But Bryan will not be dissuaded from trying to bond with the kid.
“My name is Bryan. Can you say Bryan?” he asks again, determined to get him to say it. “Bryyyyyy-annnnn.”
Jackson giggles again, and I know it’s too late. “Dooooooosh!” he proclaims loudly, pointing at Bryan, who looks up in confusion at a mortified Jameson. “Did he…did he just call me a…douche?”
I, on the other hand, am not mortified. I’m in hysterics, doubled over and trying not to pee my pants.
“Bryan,” I hear Bryan try one more time. “My name is Bryan…”
But my nephew is having none of it.
“Brybry! Brybry, doosh, doosh, doosh, doooooooooooosh!” the kid calls out in progressively louder screeches.
“I, uh, I think I’d better get going,” Bryan says, getting to his feet quickly and backing away as if Jackson’s little red head is about to start spinning. Turns out he does pretty much everything but that.
“Dooooosh!” Jax screeches at the top of his lungs, points an accusing finger at Bryan and then throws the frozen cinnamon-raisin circle of bread, hitting him squarely on the nose.
The rogue bagel then proceeds to bounce off and go flying against the plate glass window of the pie shop with a loud “Thwap!”
People in the pie shop are now peering at us curiously from inside, but I’m howling too hard to care at this point.
“Yeah…okay. Uh…see you soon,” I hear Bryan mutter, rubbing his nose.
“Bryan, I’m so sorry,” Jameson gasps in mortification. “Jackson, you tell Bryan you’re sorry right now!” she demands.
The redheaded menace pouts for a moment. “Now, Jackson,” his mother warns.
“Sorra Dooosh,” is what I can make out of his attempt at an apology.
“Yeah, okay, then, I’ll just be going…”
