Sunday Scribblings: Running to the Ocean

His grandfather kicks back the recliner and walks into the living room. On the sofa, he - the grandson - is alternately reading a few work documents and a Coelho novel. The grandfather, unsure about whether he should interrupt, shuffles along quietly, but the grandson seems to want to chat.

'How's it going in there? Any good games on television?'

The grandfather turns, elated that he can chat with someone. 'Nah,' he says gruffly. 'Just baseball. They pay those guys too much. I just do the puzzles and fall asleep. A good life, if you ask me.'

'Sounds it,' the grandson replies. He doesn't necessarily want to ask what's new in the case that he gets into a long conversation, but he also doesn't want him to leave. He continues making eye contact.

'Oh, so, you're grandmother was wondering why you came running into the house last night? Was there anything wrong?'

The grandson chuckles. 'No, nothing wrong. I just had to go.'

'Huh?'

The grandson raises his voice a few decibels. 'I had to go!' He pauses to ensure that his grandfather got it. He keeps his voice loud. 'I decided to run from the house down to the ocean. It's about five miles, no big deal.'

The grandfather looks surprised, makes a sound that falls somewhere in between a laugh, a cough, and a gurgle.

'Well, it's two and a half miles down and the same back. So, at the beginning of the run, I felt the slightest urge.'

The grandson has decided to use parlance to which the grandfather can relate; the word 'urge' is one of his favorites.

'I had a lot of water at dinner. Almost three glasses. And I didn't go before I left.'

'Oh boy,' the grandfather was hanging on every mundane word.

'So, I got down to the ocean, but I don't like to stop running once I've started.'

Again, the lachurgle.

'By the time I was half way back, I was thinking of stopping at some random house. But that's embarrassing. So, I kept going. It made me faster, anyway.'

The grandfather was laughing outright by this time, intermingling his 'oh boys'.

'But I made it. From now on, I think before I go running...'

At that moment, the grandmother who's watching television in her room - at least twenty feet down the hall - yells, 'You shoulda took a pee.'

The grandfather, of course, couldn't hear what she had said. So, the grandson tells him. And they both start laughing hysterically. It was just like the grandmother to be able to hear everything and anything happening in the house. She has the ears of a rabbit.

'Exactly,' I agree.

The grandfather walks back into the den. And the grandson decides his day is over. So, he closes up shop and meanders back to talk to his grandmother.

He sits down next to her and asks how things are going. They chat a bit. Then, the grandmother asks, 'Why did you come running in the house last night? Is everything okay?'

The grandson looks at her; he's a little perplexed. 'Didn't you hear me tell the story to grandpa earlier?'

'No,' she admits.

'Why did you say, "You shoulda took a pee?"'

'What?'

'You said that earlier. What were you watching?'

A big smile brightens her warm, white face. 'Oh, that. I was watching Wheel of Fortune.'

3WW (Gentle, Praise, Vulgar): Golden Age

I decided on a night at the ballpark. I’ll do that every so often; take a train to Flushing or the Bronx and buy a bleacher seat. It’s cheap if you don’t buy the beer, or food for that matter. Funny thing is I’m not a New York baseball fan. In fact, I’m not a fan of any pro team. There’s nothing and no one to praise in this day and age when people can buy ball teams. It’s just a product. People tell me I have to have a team, and I tell ‘em no ball team’s worth my allegiance. That seems to screw with their heads enough to leave me alone.

What I really love is old time baseball. Not the dead ball era. I’d say between 1920 and 1960. Ruth’s dominance to Williams’ exit. Yeah, I know there were other greats I’m leaving out. But I’m not talking about the people; I’m talking about time. A time before California baseball. Before there were teams in Milwaukee, Kansas City, and even Baltimore. When Brooklyn had its Bums and the Giants played in the most ridiculous field you’d ever seen. And no, I’m no racist. Hell, I wish Gibson and Bell had been in the majors; it would have made for some great games. But I ain’t got the power to turn back time. I only wish I had the chance to see an old time ballgame in an old time park.

The Yanks are playing Toronto, I think. Whatever. I just hope it’s a good game. I board the ‘D’ and take a seat. I see a few Jeter and A-Rod shirts. Some Posada and Pettitte jerseys. A Mattingly, Jackson, and Gehrig here and there. It’s essentially an express train, but after a long day of studying and working I fall asleep.

I feel a poke. The old timer’s got his wooden cane in my chest, and he ain’t bein’ gentle. I shake my head, blink my eyes.

‘You’re here,’ the old man crowed.

There was no one on the train. And I didn’t hear anyone outside on the platform either. Not normal.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

The old man pointed out the door. ‘Time for the game, boy. You’ve almost slept through it. A good game, I reckon, too. Best be getting yourself to the field.’ He pushed the young man in the back with his cane.

‘Cut the shit, old man,’ I yelled.

‘No need to get vulgar. Stay here for all I care. I’d like to see a ballgame.’ The old man hopped up the stairs like a kid and was out of sight.

I probably would’ve stayed on the train if it weren’t so creepy. Plus, I wanted to see the game. So, I walked out through the turn-styles and up the stairs. The old man was nowhere to be found. The whole scene looked funny, like I’d never seen this part of town before. But I’d been to Yankee Stadium hundreds of times. No one was around, another weird thing on the day of a game. I looked at the street and cross street. 155th and 8th. I was still in Manhattan. Barely, but still. I could see the Stadium across the river. But that’s not what I was looking at. I was looking at a huge oval-looking thing in front of me. And I knew it could only be one place: the Polo Grounds.

3WW (Acrid, Bane, Tepid): A Delicate Instrument

Today is my 92nd birthday. The shrink at this God-awful place tells me I should start composing a journal to help me recollect my final days; they think my mind is going. It isn’t, not the most important parts. But I’ve decided to obey in order not to raise unnecessary suspicion. Apart from the shrink – whom I’m guessing has quite a bit of pull here – I simply ignore the wretches in this establishment. I eat when I choose. I walk when I choose. I defecate when I choose. I watch golf when I choose. I remember a time when I held the fate of peons like these in my hands. I could hire and fire on the spot. I had power. Now, I have an acrid taste in my mouth from the pureed crap they served me this morning. The food is my bane here. It is bland and inedible. If I am losing any part of my mind, it is because these mere servants can’t so much as boil water. Speaking of water, my tea was tepid this morning. I begin to wonder if there isn’t some kind of conspiracy against me here. I wonder if Rogers and Niederhaus are working together to make my life as miserable as I once made theirs. I can’t help that they were lazy, do-nothings who added absolutely no incremental value to the company. They are most likely working with my bastard children. Those pariahs haven’t come to see me since God knows when. They’ve looted my coffers; they essentially killed dear Doris, God rest her soul, with their conniving. Damn it. I hear one of the senseless rabble coming down the hallway. I best sign off before they capture this sacred book and use my own words…

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘It’s okay, Ms. Ramsey. It is, in fact, something I’ve not previously encountered.’

‘Can you help him?’

‘The brain is a delicate instrument. There is a significant amount of trauma.’

‘You say this is just one. Are there any others?’

‘I’ve witnessed someone whom I think is closer to his age, though the exact age is still indeterminate as of now. But it’s too soon to tell.’

‘Have you seen… umm… him?’

‘It’s hard to say since I hadn’t met him before the accident.’

‘I just want my son back.’

‘Yes, I know Ms. Ramsey, and we’ll try to find him.’

Sunday Scribblings (Me) - Hot Days

I sit half naked, cold and melancholy
In a cardboard box
Half shredded by Hemingway cats.
I make decisions
As well as impotent rabbits breed,
And live a life
Greeting death with a water hose.
I spray at it,
Watch it dissipate and fail into nothing.

It’s not all bad;
I’m at least somewhat cool on hot days.