My Dad, the Brain Surgeon

On a wildly uneventful bus ride from Chiang Mai back to Bangkok, I found myself rereading emails on my cellphone to pass the time. I came across one that asked if I would miss friends and family during the holidays. The answer is, yes. It also got me thinking about my favorite family holiday road trip. Since this blog is about travel, it applies. Now, before I get into this particular story it is important that you all have a basic understanding of my dad's educational background.

Hanging on the wall in his home office are two framed diplomas issued in his name by Oklahoma State University. One, Teaching. The other, Mechanical Engineering. Neither of which qualifies him to perform any kind of medical procedure, except maybe hand out some aspirin. Even then, you'll want to check the bottle yourself to make sure you aren't getting decades old birth control pills or the dog's heartworm medicine.

Let's flashback many years to a time without cellphones...but beepers. Only doctors and one swank oilman carried pagers. Primarily doctors, though. Our family had driven from Oklahoma City to Kansas City to visit The Plaza in all its holiday glory. One night in particular, we found ourselves at a restaurant called The Train Depot or Station, something to that regard because is was housed in a converted train station. And given the prices on the menu, they were wholly expecting their customers to pay for whatever bill was outstanding for the remodeling conversion.

Being on a budget, we all panicked at the sight of the cheapest menu item: standard hamburger for $22. We had already been seated and outfitted with a lazy susan tray that had an assortment of spring rolls, mini-burritos, and other things that had been wrapped and fried. Now really, how does a family of six graciously exit before ordering without looking like a bunch of povs? Remember the beeper? In a stroke of genius, I borrowed a quarter from my dad and called his pager from the payphone near the bathrooms. It went off as the waitress arrived to take our order. "Oh, looks like the hospital is trying to get a hold of me, do you have a phone?" The waitress brought a phone to the table and stood there as he randomly hit 7 digits on the keypad. "Uh huh. Really? Now? I'm having dinner with my family. I see. I'll be right there." All of this dialogue was heard by us, the waitress, and a busy signal.

"Jeez, I hope it's nothing too serious," the waitress responded, taking back the phone. My dad, not one to lie easily, looked her dead in the eye and without hesitation said, "Yep, emergency brain surgery."

Emergency. Brain. Surgery. Those are the words he used. Unbelievable.

We all sighed as if another dinner with dad had been ruined because of his duty to save lives. We got up and walked somberly behind him past the scrumptious salad bar toward the door, seemingly contemplating the fears and anxiety of the fictional patient he was about to crack into with a brain saw.

At the car, we doubled over laughing and celebrated our collective cleverness with high-fives. Each of us hurriedly spitting out our favorite moment of the scam. We then piled into the car with the bogus brain surgeon at the wheel in search of a restaurant that marketed good food at family-friendly prices. Can't remember where we ended up, though. Probably the Sizzler.