Michael D. Davis.

I don’t care how many of these articles I write; I don’t think anyone ever will truly understand the inner workings of my family. I was watching a screwball comedy from the 30s the other day about a madcap rich family that was always going from one farce and insane wild antic to another. I watched and thought, we’re the poor man’s version of that.

So, Saturday morning I awoke before seven, and that decision is what kicked off a series of events that led me here to talk to you. My early morning rise did not have me getting any worms, but I did get to see my friend the kid, and my editor run a 5k, as my fat self broke a sweat rattling off delightfully facetious remarks.

After all that, and I was back home, I decided to add the monthly card to my Ma’s Tracfone, and mine as well. I go about it with no issue. That night, Ma’s phone stops texting all together. I work on it for an hour and get nowhere. So, I hand it off to my sister, who is a little more adept at these things. An eternity on call with customer service, 45 minutes on hold, and one complete call disconnect later, my sister figured out that in my half awaken state that morning I’d put both phone cards on my phone. I thought that was hilarious. What a stupid mistake I had made. Who knew, I said. My sister was less amused.

So, in an act of apology, I agreed not to speak to her for an entire twenty-four hours. My sister was to have a silent Sunday. I could talk to the spirit of Henry Fonda for all she cared, as long as it wasn’t to her.

For the most part, that was cool, no big worries. However, there were a few things that I needed to tell her that Sunday. First of all, on Sunday my sister picks up supper, so I have to tell her what I want, but how am I going to do that if I can’t talk to her? Secondly, since my little trip to the ER, (see last week’s Magic Mike, go read it now, I’ll wait.) I’m supposed to tell everyone where I’ll be in case my heart explodes like a bomb in the heat or something. If I could get those two things communicated to her without actually speaking to her, the day would be a breeze.

I went through all the usual ideas, skywriting, texting, calling a friend telling them what to say then giving them my sister’s number and having them relay the message to my sister, but instead, I went for something simple, I wrote a one-act play. I called it “July the Sixth,” because it was the sixth of July, and I couldn’t think of anything clever at the time. The play has three characters, a father, a daughter, and Mike, who is only mentioned but never seen.

The play starts out with the father knocking on his daughter’s door. After the daughter swears a few times, the father enters the room, where the two then have an awkward exchange about how their days are going. This leads the father to wonder where Mike is. The daughter has no knowledge on the subject. The father then makes a small speech about how he and Mike talked earlier and how Mike said something about going here, then over here, and that he will want this for supper. The daughter is grateful for this information and you can see the two characters really admire this Mike they keep mentioning. Finally, father and daughter hug and say how Mike is the greatest person that has probably ever walked the earth. Fade out, curtain, end of play.

Once I print out two copies of this little one-act, I highlight the father’s lines on one and the daughter’s lines on the other. I then went to my father, the old one, and gave him his copy of the script. At first, he had questions, then I think he had some nerves because he’d never acted before. I then snuck my sister’s copy into her room. I don’t know if it was ever performed, as I then left, as it said in the play, to do some things, but I hope it was.

So, no, I don’t think anyone will ever understand my family. We are a silent for twenty-four hours, itinerary in a slightly blasphemous one-act play sort of a family. We are a 1930s screwball comedy sort of a family, only with a lot more swearing.

PS On Sunday afternoon, when I was speaking with the kid, he offhandedly said something that struck me as hilarious. He said, “When you’re allowed to speak to your sister again on Monday, don’t tell her what I just said.” I don’t know if it’s the wording, the sentiment, or the strangeness of that remark, but it makes me laugh.