Dodging the Crown of Village Idiot

It’s like my mom always told me, in that dry, deadpan way of hers—usually while she was stirring a pot of chili or folding a mountain of laundry nobody else thought to touch—“You might not be the dumbest guy in the world, but you better hope he doesn’t die.”

I used to think that was just her way of saying I wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but with a little backhanded charm. You know, the kind of thing only a mother can say without starting a fight.

But over the years, I’ve come to realize it wasn’t just a jab at my intelligence. It was a warning.

Because there’s a dumb that goes beyond grades or test scores. One that’s not about how many books you’ve read or how well you can explain the difference between a tax deduction and a tax credit, which, for the record, I still can’t.

It’s the kind of dumb that comes from walking through life with your eyes half-shut and your ears clogged with your voice. It’s the kind that thinks luck is a plan and that time will wait for you to get your act together.

I’ve known that dumb. I’ve been that kind of dumb.

Take my cousin Elmo. He grew up thinking rules were for other people and brakes were optional.

One summer, he attempted to fix the transmission on his truck with a can of WD-40 and a pair of barbecue tongs. He made it exactly halfway down the driveway before something important fell off and he rolled backwards into a pool.

Elmo hasn’t died, so the dumbest guy in the world might still be out there. But if he had taken the title, I’d have been next in line.

I think my mom’s point—and it took me way too long to figure this out—is that there’s no medal for being just a little less clueless than the next guy. The world doesn’t give out participation trophies for good intentions.

You either learn the hard way or you wise up before it gets to that. And if you don’t, well, you hope the dumbest guy in the world keeps breathing.

These days, I try to remember that when tempted to say “I’ll get to it later” or “I thought someone else was handling it.”

Whether it’s paying the electric bill, fixing that rattle under the hood, or telling someone I love them while I still can, I ask myself, “Is this the moment I earn my crown as the dumbest guy in the world?”

Because he’s out there, somewhere, eating gas station sushi, trying to pet a raccoon, thinking that bald tires still have a few good months in them, and when he goes, that crown’s up for grabs. So I double-check the locks at night, and I don’t ignore warning lights, on the dashboard or in life.

I do my best to listen more than I talk, or at least I try to, and now and then, I remember my mom’s voice in that kitchen—half stern, half amused—and I smile. She wasn’t trying to insult me. She was trying to save me.

And maybe, in her strange way, she did.