The Forgetful Celibate

Don Gangler didn't think one of life's greatest pleasures should hinge on so small a thing as a can opener.


excerpt

Don Gangler fumbled through his pockets as he felt the heat of his wife's eyes blazing into him. He tried his pants pockets, side and rear, then his shirt pocket and all the suit jacket pockets. He emptied out his side pants pocket and pulled them inside out in a final gesture of despair.
Mrs. Gangler was tapping her foot, trying to keep her anxiety to a steady tempo.
"You forgot the tickets?" she asked. She had been prepared to ask that as soon as Don had begun fumbling for the tickets outside of the lobby, but she managed to convey a heroic portion of disbelief and an equal mixture of astonishment that one male could be so singularly devoid of standard mental faculties. "You forgot the tickets?" she repeated, this time getting more of a bite of incredulousness into it.
"Yes, dear, I forgot the tickets." His face took on an expression of resignation. "Well, it probably wasn't such a good show anyhow."
"Try your wallet." Her voice was sharp and snappy. With her growing audience she was feeling the power at her command.
"I did," Don answered silently.
"Try your hatband," said someone in the crowd.
Don reached up quickly and then pulled his hand down. He wasn't wearing a hat. His movements brought about a round of good-natured laughter from the ring of spectators.
His wife glared at him, leaning forward as if ready to bite him. "You'd forget your head if it wasn't tied on to you."
"You certainly have a way with words," Don muttered softly as he shrunk back, as if trying to disappear into the lining of his jacket.