Timothy And The Gas by Don Newbury

Timothy Martin was very upset. It seemed like that in the past two years, nothing could go right for him. His girlfriend of two years recently decided she was a lesbian and left him for someone named Sheila. His car, which wasn’t much to begin with, had broken down beyond repair and he neither had the money or the inclination to do anything about it. And just last week, he lost his job. Again! All he could think of was a phrase from “Cheers” when Norm said “It’s a dog eat dog world and I’m wearing ‘Milk Bone‘underwear.”

This was the third job he lost in the past two years and it was really starting to be a drag. His ex-girlfriend used to get on him all the time not to make waves at work but did he listen? She kept saying that he had a really hard time with authority but he thought she was crazy. He just couldn’t understand why they didn’t realize his ideas were great and that he was a borderline genius. If they would only listen and maybe have a sense of humor about these things, they would be so far better off. Of course, what really ticked him off was she kept saying constantly that she was right all along. And then she left with Sheila. “Good riddance” Tim thought. The only reason she thought she was a lesbian was because she was jealous and couldn’t handle the pressure of competing with him. He was starting to realize that maybe he needed a whole different lifestyle and he didn’t mean the one his ex was now enjoying. “To hell with them all,” he thought, “I’ll change everything beginning with where I’m living.”

He was born and raised in Boston and still lived there. Did he want to stay in Massachusetts? Nah! He really couldn’t stand these cold winters anymore and if he had to listen to one more crooked politician, he’d kill himself. This was during the nineties, so he was tired of seeing the Red Sox take the gas pipe every year. On top of that, he couldn’t even think about the Big Dig without getting nauseous. He thought to himself that New York might be different before he realized that he would rather gouge his own eyes out than to consider such a move. Being a native Bostonian, the hatred for the city was too ingrained. The thought of being around people who rooted for the Yankees sickened him and he knew if he moved there, he would be taunted by every obnoxious New Yorker he would come in contact with. So, that idea was totally out of the question.

He knew he wanted to move but to where? Did he want to go south? No, it was too hot and humid for one thing. Plus, if he went down to the Bible belt, he would be damned to hell for all eternity because he wanted to commit a small sin like dancing on Sunday or something. Besides, when you eat out, they give you grits with everything. “Here is your Martini and grits, sir.” No thank you. He wasn’t even sure what grits were but he didn’t want to deal with them.

Did he want to go out west? No, too phony and strange. With his luck, he would get caught up into some sort of weird cult whose members did yoga while wearing Reeboks. They would also worship a tree branch that they considered holy named Marvin. According to them, it was taken from the high holiest oak tree in the greater neighborhood and if he believed in it, he would find eternal peace with at least five virgins when he died. This was the same tree where people saw the image of Christ in one its acorns. He would either get caught up in all of this or he would become a junkie.

How about the Mid-West? Close, but no cigar. These are people who collect miniature tractors, for God’s sake! Their idea of a good time is to go down to the local A & P and watch the truck unload. And how many Amish people could he stand to be around without going nuts?

So what could he do? What could he do? He was starting to wonder if he was getting too picky. But then he thought that the whole point to this exercise was to do something totally different. If he was going to do it then he had to go all the way. How about Europe? Europe? Was he crazy? Why on earth would he want to go to Europe? They don’t even speak English! And they just love Americans, especially the French. Oh yeah, he would fit right in. All he would have to do is order the wrong wine with his cheeseburger and they would mock him forever. Italy? Forget about Italy. His mother’s side of the family was Italian and he couldn’t imagine being in a whole nation of those jamokes. A whole neighborhood full of women that looked like his Aunt Conchetta, always pinching his cheeks and trying to make him eat? He freaked out at the thought. Of course the woman could look like Sophia Loren he supposed, but with his luck, they wouldn’t.

He was sitting alone in his living room having a smoke, watching an old Monty Python show when it hit him. He needed something totally and completely different. He was in Great Britain when he was younger and loved it then so why not? He liked a lot of things about Britain. For instance, he was a huge fan of the Beatles and he loved all those British comedies they show on PBS. Granted, when he visited, he only saw the airport because he and his father were on their way back from Italy. They were in Italy to visit the same relatives he wanted nothing to do with now. But, he remembered that the people there treated him very nicely, the buildings looked nice and he loved their accents to boot. He figured, why not?

So he told everybody he knew what he was planning. The ones who didn’t think he was just outright nuts at least said they admired him because he was doing a daring if not amazingly stupid thing. Some tried to talk him out of but most didn’t. His mother couldn’t understand why he just didn’t want to live in their basement. After all, his father just redid it in wood paneling with new curtains and everything. It was perfect for a single guy. When she tried to explain it but she kept asking him why he was stabbing her in the heart. His father told him he was insane but then he whispered in Tim’s ear that deep down inside, he was jealous. He always wanted to have a huge adventure like this instead of being trapped a pit of despair.

Tim figured he could sell everything he owned which honestly wasn’t much. Not only would he have some extra cash on top of what he saved, but he could also have a totally brand new start. He was sure there must have been some stores like Wal-Mart and he could buy whatever he needed in one of those. Besides it would be way too expensive to take all that stuff with him. If he flew, security at the airport really didn’t have a sense of humor about certain things. If he sailed, then he probably would have to lug most of it himself anyway so why bother? Nope, travel light was his motto. He packed a couple of suitcases of the necessities like clothes and books. What else did he need?

One of the many jobs he had back home was working for the telephone company as an operator, so he figured he would try to get a job with their phone company. He faxed his resume, such as it was and he got a response within five days saying they would indeed be interested. They would interview him when he arrived. “That was a great stroke of luck.” he thought “I just hope now that pain in the ass of a boss I worked for would give him a decent review. “ The supervisor in Boston gave him a passing grade for two reasons. He was afraid of a lawsuit and he was really tired of hearing Tim say he was a borderline genius all the time.

He decided to fly instead of taking a ship mainly because it was cheaper. He could either take was one of those real fancy ships or ride on what was laughingly called a “budget ship” which was pretty much a tramp steamer with curtains. With his luck, he would probably have to bunk with some sailor who hadn’t seen a woman since the Vietnam War and he didn’t want to be someone’s “little buddy.”

So he took off from Logan Airport. Even though it was raining, he didn’t mind because he would have to get used to this kind of weather. You know old foggy London town and all that. His parents were there to say goodbye and while mother was clutching her handkerchief, beyond hysterical, the old man just kept shaking his head and muttering, “He’ll be back the lucky bastard, he’ll be back.”

After he settled in for the five hour flight, he struck up a conversation with the guy next to him across the aisle who was from Britain. Tim told him what he was doing and while the man was slightly amused at this young American’s plan, he also thought Tim was crazy. But, he took a liking to Tim as well and told Tim of a friend in London who could possibly help him in getting someplace to live. There would be a fee of course but no other hanky-panky. He gave Tim a card and told him to call when he landed all the while thinking “This poor bastard is never going to make it.”

Other than that, the flight was uneventful and they eventually arrived at Heathrow Airport. Walking around the terminal, Tim thought to himself that it hadn’t changed much since the last time he saw it except for the soldiers standing around with machine guns. Once he located his bags, he grabbed a taxi and headed out to the big city.

The apartment or a “flat” as the natives called it was in London’s East End. It was not glamorous by any means but it had a certain charm. He was already starting to like this adventure and once he paid his first months rent, he took a walk to see the different sights of his new home. It seemed like he walked for miles and miles just entranced by everything he saw. The next day he found his place of employment. The interview went well and he was hired. He was to report bright and early on the 15^th to Miss Ann Whitehall.

He worked there for about six months until one day it came to a grinding halt. He had a particularly nasty and uncooperative customer on the phone and wrangled with the man for a good ten minutes regarding a number that was disconnected. He was trying to be as patient as he could but the man just couldn’t get it through his head his friend’s number no longer existed. He kept asking Tim why this was so and of course, Tim had no idea. He kept trying to placate the man but he was having none of it.

He really thought Tim was conspiring against him by withholding the information. He was ranting and raving about how high the rates were and how it was such an outrage that customers should be treated in such a manner. In fact, he was thinking of writing a letter to the Queen herself just to state his case. Tim tried to calm him down and said that the Queen probably wouldn’t even see the letter because she had better things to do like watering the roses.

With that the man exploded and said “Give me your superior you impertinent little scamp! “ As he rang up the supervisor, he said, “Good riddance you miserable old coot! “ But he didn’t realize his mute button wasn’t on and the customer heard what Tim said. What Tim also didn’t realize was that the customer, Mr. Smythington turned out to be Lord Richard Smythington of Yorkshire first twice removed, a very important man. Outraged, Lord Smythington demanded to Tim’s boss that he be fired. Nobody calls Lord Smythington an old coot and gets away with it, not even his wife. He was ranting that in the old days, he could have had Tim beheaded for behaving in such a manner. Tim was sacked that afternoon and on the way home, he thought that if Smythington had really written the Queen, she probably would have read it.

Even though it wasn’t the best paying job in the world, it was all that Tim had. He tried to find work, but Britain did not have the best economy in the world at the time, so it wasn’t easy. When he did find work, it didn’t last long because he always felt the job was beneath him because after all, he was a borderline genius. The job just paid the bills and that was all.

He found himself drinking more and more. Even though he realized he was developing a problem, he really didn’t care. “I can stop anytime,” he would say to himself. So much for jolly old England.

So now here he was sitting alone in his now seedy looking apartment. He was broke, depressed and lonely. He couldn’t go back to America even though his mother would greet him at the airport with salami sandwiches. They would never let him live it down. Borderline genius my foot, they would say. He couldn’t stand the humiliation.

Since this was going on for about six months, he figured the only answer would be to commit suicide. But how would he do it? Should he slash his wrists? No, that would be too painful. Even though he was depressed, he wasn’t into pain at all. Should he hang himself? No, for the same reason. Besides, he would probably screw it up somehow and hang there like a piece of meat. Should he overdose on pills? That would be almost painless but what if they didn’t work? All he would have is an upset stomach and he would be even more depressed. No, the only way to do it was to stick his head in the oven and gas himself. The gas would overpower him and he would fall asleep and onto his final demise. Yes, that was it.

He went to the kitchen. He was a little nervous which he thought was funny at first but then he realized that he was committing suicide after all. He closed all of the windows in the apartment and turned on the oven. He sat on the floor next to the stove and waited for the gas to take him to another world.

He sat there for ten minutes listening to the hissing noise coming out of the oven’s burners. At first he thought he felt drowsy but then he revived. Another ten minutes passed, still nothing. He sat there for almost an hour and still nothing happened. By now he was getting visibly upset. Something should have happened by now.

What he didn’t know was this. In England and in most of Europe, they put a chemical into the natural gas to make it non-toxic. You could sniff the stuff through a mask and you wouldn’t even get a buzz. He sat there angry and confused. What could have gone wrong? “Can’t I do anything right?” he thought to himself.

After he was chastising himself for being such a screw-up and also being mad at the world in general, he pondered his situation for a second. Maybe this was a sign? Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all? Maybe he really was a full blown genius? It gave him a new perspective. Starting tomorrow, he would try to get his act together, seriously trying to find a new job and really making an effort to stop drinking. Besides, if all else fails, he could always go back to America and do something there. To hell with that they thought. He knew better.

Yes, he was pretty pleased with himself. He sat at the kitchen table so he could plot out his new future. As he thought, he reached for a cigarette. When he lit it, he ignited the gas and the explosion blew him through the side of the building. Timothy had gotten what he wanted after all, something totally different.

A Schoolboy's Life

Oh boy, oh boy, I’m so excited. It’s my first day of the first grade and I can’t wait to get inside. It’s gonna be so neat to have my own books and my own desk. I even have a nice new pencil box that my mother bought me so I’m all set to go. I already met my teacher Mrs. Benninati and boy is she pretty! She’s really nice too. I can’t wait until I learn how to read so I can go to the second grade and have…

Mrs. Peterson. Mrs. Peterson looks like she’s a hundred years old and she has a nasty temper. She must weigh about three hundred pounds and she sure isn’t as pretty as Mrs. Bennenati. There’s a girl named Rosemary in my class and every time she gets and answer wrong, Mrs. Peterson gives her a whack. What happened to Mrs. Benninati? The only good thing is that Mrs. Peterson can’t hear and she depends on us to let her know when the recess bell rings. Sometimes we tell her it did when it didn’t but don’t tell anybody. I don’t like second grade that much and I can’t wait to get to third grade and have…

Mrs. Lovett. She caught me using a pen instead of a pencil the other day and got really upset with me. She said we’re too young to use a pen and have to use a pencil. Pens are only supposed to be used by the older kids. I didn’t mean to make her mad but using a pen is just easier that’s all. You have to keep sharpening a pencil and it’s a pain. When I get to fourth grade at least….

Miss Toomey will let me use a pen. She gets mad at us if we count on our fingers though. I like Miss Toomey because she is really nice. She's kind of old. I mean she must be at forty. Plus she is so skinny I'm afraid she might blow away if a gust of wind gets hold of her. I like her though because she is really patient with me. Although there was that one-day when she was trying to do a project with us and looked like she was getting very aggravated. Her hair was messed up and everything. I felt kind of bad for her. I hope that my fifth grade teacher…

Miss Crowley will be just as nice. She is too, plus Miss Crowley is very pretty. She taught me how to tell time the other day. She felt bad for me because one time she asked me what time it was and I told her I couldn’t tell her. I wasn't being a wise guy or anything, I just didn't know how because nobody ever taught me. So she kept me after school by myself for a little while and showed me. She said I caught on really quick too. I’m a little sad because she told us today that she is leaving because she is going to have a baby. I told my father that it looked like she was gaining some weight but he never said anything. I’m going to miss Miss Crowley. We’re going to have another teacher for the rest of the year and her name is Miss Fairfield. She is pretty too but I don't think she likes me as much as Miss Crowley did. Things will be different when I have…

Mr. Blasi in the sixth grade. Mr. Blasi is the first male teacher I’ve ever had and I don’t think I like him too much. He lives in my neighborhood. His kid Joey tries to hang around with the guys and me but we don’t like him either. He’s always bugging us and we do things to get rid of him. I think Mr. Blasi doesn’t like me because I’m fat. He asked me the other day in front of the class what I had for lunch and I told him a pie. Before I could tell him it was a small Table Talk pie, he made a big deal out it and made it sound like I had a whole big pie. I never did get the chance to explain and all the other kids were laughing at me. He didn't have to do that. Well, at least now I will be going to…

The seventh grade and I will be in a new school too. It’s called the McKinley school and I have a bunch of teachers instead of just one. I hope I can keep track of it because I don’t want to screw up like I always seem to. Trying to find the right classroom is a little confusing but I’ll get the hang of it. I heard a rumor that the older kids in the eight grade make the new kids go through an ‘initiation.’ They call it polling and what they do is grab you by the arm and legs and bang you up against a pole. I hope it’s not true because that would really stink. Not to mention be very painful. On top of everything else, we don’t get recess anymore! I’ll have to get used to that. When I get to the …

Eighth grade, maybe I can pick on the new kids. I probably won’t though because I didn't like being scared all the time. Besides, there is no one to do it with. This is my second year at the McKinley and it’s pretty much the same as it was in the seventh grade. There’s a kid named Eddie who keeps picking on me. I don’t know what I did to this guy but he keeps doing all kind of rotten things to me. He’ll hit me for no reason when I walk down the corridor, spits on me and just generally makes life miserable. I wish he would leave me alone. A weird thing happened the other day though. Eddie hit me when I was in the schoolyard and out of nowhere, this other kid came by on his bike and smacked Eddie across the face. Then he drove off. He didn’t stop so I could thank him but I really appreciated it. It will be nice to get out of here and go to the…

Ninth grade. Now I’m in the first year of high school. The regular high school can only hold so many kids, so they make us all spend our first year at the Garfield school. It’s great because it’s on the beach. We have a principal, Mr. Waxman who is pretty cool. If we have a study class, he doesn’t make us sit in a classroom. We can go down to the beach if we want to. One day, most of my teachers went on a field trip to Washington so I only had to go to one class. It was my last class of the day, which sucked, but at least I spent the whole day at the beach. He’s a great guy but I don’t like the vice principal at all. He is just nasty. One day, I walked the entire length of Revere because I missed my bus. I really do live on the other side of town from the school. All the way there, I thought that he would be proud of me because I showed some determination and I was looking forward to it. When I arrived, he yelled me for being late and told me I would have to stay after school! I couldn’t believe it! I walked all that way and he yelled at me? He’s lucky I showed up at all. What a creep! But when I get to…

Tenth grade, it’ll be great. It’s my first year at the high school although it's actually my second year of high school. It’s pretty cool but it’s also a little scary. This building is so old that the wood floors buckle up from old age. You have to be careful not to trip over them. I have a whole new batch of teachers too. My favorite is Mr. Curran because he is really funny. He looks like Dick Van Dyke and he should be a stand-up comedian. We discovered that all we have to ask is “Hey Mr. Curran, what did you do over the weekend?” and he talks for three days. The bad thing is that he teaches math and I hate math. I just don’t get it. I try to understand it and try to do my best but the results are always the same. I'll probably never get it. But at least he makes us laugh. Hopefully when I get to the…

Eleventh grade, I will have a teacher like him. Now I’m a junior. I still have most of the same teachers but now I have a new history teacher. His name is Mr. Murphy. I like him because he makes us argue with him. He gives you a lesson about, say, World War Two and then he’ll get in your face and say something like “I don’t think Franklin Roosevelt should have done this or that! What do you think?” Then he expects you to state your case or at least give him an argument. He makes it interesting and exciting at the same time. I still have Mr. Curran and he still makes me laugh. I still don’t understand the math though. Maybe I will get it by the time I get to…

Twelfth grade. Now I’m a senior and I have to admit that I do feel like a big shot. I have most of the credits I need to graduate in spite of the fact that I'm not really a great student. So now I can cruise a little bit through the rest of the year. It’s great. I can sneak out for a butt anytime I feel like it and nobody really cares. Unless they catch me. I don’t even go to gym class anymore because I don’t want to. The teacher is a maniac who makes us run around the block five times until he’s satisfied. And unless you're on the football team or basketball team, he yells at you constantly. I don’t see that jerk running though. What he doesn’t realize is that once we are out his view, we walk. I went to the first class and then just stopped going. Now I understand he just crossed me off the list like I don’t exist and that’s fine by me. I still have Mr. Curran but now I feel bad for him. I don’t know if he ticked somebody off or not but what he or she did to him wasn’t very nice. They took all of the kids who he failed in the past two years and put them all in the same class. Honest to God, the look on his face when he walked in on the first day was great. He literally just shook his head and sat down. Now I got a friend of mine who sits behind me and makes rude comments. Nobody else can hear him but me so it looks like I’m laughing like a fool for no reason. They changed the drinking age to eighteen so we all got fake ID’s and spend our lunch at a local bar called the Dublin. We have Mr. Curran for our last class. We think he’s funny anyway but after a few beers, he’s even funnier. I love it. I also graduate and I can’t wait. In spite of Mr. Curran and Mr. Murphy, I hate school and if I never see one again, it will be too soon. Maybe I can get a job when I graduate. I'm not going to college because nobody has ever talked to me about it. Besides, only the good students get to go. Hell, I never even took the SAT's. I don’t have the money anyway so why even bother with it? I couldn't even afford my to buy my yearbook and the only reason I got one is I think my mother talked our welfare social worker into lending her the money. Maybe I will go later but right now I want my freedom.

Sports Round Table

Jack -

Good evening folks and welcome to tonight’s edition of “Sports Round table.” I’m Jack Fitzgerald and boy hasn’t it been some sort of weekend in sports. Our beloved Baltimore Crabs have won game six of the World Series and are forcing a final and decisive game seven show-down with the Colorado Ball-Busters. It’s all down to the wire and you just feel the excitement permeating throughout the city. The Crabs literally came out of nowhere to dominate the Eastern League and have done great in the playoffs. So without much further ado, let me introduce our panel for the evening. First up, we have Tony Winkler, writer for the Observer. Welcome aboard Tony, this is your first time with us right?

Tony -

Uh yes, it is Jack. Glad to be here.”

Jack -

What do think of the Ball-Busters getting the Crabs in game 7, Tony?”

Tony -

You know? I have to honestly say that I’m not sure. It could go either way.”

Jack -

Well, the Crabs have much better pitching than the Colorado Ball-Busters, so that helps them quite a bit.”

Tony -

Yeah, you’re right.”

Jack -

On the other hand, the Ball-Busters are a strong defensive team.”

Tony -

Yeah, that’s true too. It certainly should be a battle.”

Jack -

Well, um, thank Jack. Next, we have Billy-Bob Calhoun, columnist for the Baltimore Times-Picayune Herald Rocketeer. As you know, Billy-Bob used to be wide receiver for those great football teams from the eighties from the University of Mississippi at Dumbass, and he always has a colorful way of looking at things. Why he's doing commentary for a football game is anybody’s guess, but there you go. Anyway Billy-Bob, what do you think?”

Billy Bob -

“Well, I’ll tell you what. If I’m a Crab, I’m expecting to go at least seven games.”

Jack -

'Tomorrow is the seventh game, big guy.”

Billy Bob -

“Oops, my bad, you’re right. I guess my football helmet came off one too many times. I don’t see it going beyond six though. I was talking to Crabs manager Lorimar Larue and he said to me ‘You know Billy-Bob? Whenever you have strong pitching, you’ll win. You have to have the arms with the strength of a pissed-off mule and that’s all there is to it. If you don’t get the ball over the plate then you might as well kiss your Aunt Sadie goodbye and hug your Uncle Lester. Don’t even think about saying hi to your cousin Cletus.’ And you know somethin’? He’s positively right on. They probably won't get more than two yards a play anyway”

Jack -

Don't forget that this is a baseball game now.

Billy-Bob -

Oh yeah.

Jack -

“The Crabs do have the definite advantage by having the two best hitters in the game. Of course we're talking about Kwanzi Washington and Hector “Pepe” Valenzuela and they could cause the Ball-Busters to have all kinds of trouble. Tony?”

Tony -

“Yeah, those two guys will want to make the Ball-Busters run away and join the Foreign Legion, that’s for sure. It's a good thing they weren't caught in all that steroid testing”

Jack -

“Hitters like that just foam at the mouth at the prospects of playing in a stadium like ‘Northern United Telecomm and Subsidiaries Field at Lamar Place’ because of the short right field. You’ll be seeing some shots fly out of there steroids or not. In fact they’ve already hit sixteen home runs in this series alone. Tony?”

Tony - “Yeah. Ain't that something?

Jack - “Billy-Bob, how do you think these stats reflect on the Crabs pitching?

Billy-Bob -

“When I was talking to head Ball-Buster, manager, Rusty Talcum, who’s a pecan-pie-eating good ole’ boy from Alabama if I ever saw one, and he stated that the one thing these guys need to have is a ball that just hovers above the right hand corner of the plate a little, stays a little to the left and then twists back into the catcher’s mitt. He said that’s what he will be looking for. If Washington and Valenzuela see pitches like that, they’ll be hitting the ball so hard that the horsehide will be looking for the horse. They will be rockin’ down the old ball yard, that’s for damn sure! Especially in the third quarter!”

Jack -

“Baseball, Billy-Bob, baseball! Speaking of Washington, we were able to grab an interview with Kwanzi earlier today right after he hit three fans in the parking lot with his Humvee. Here’s what he had to say.”

Washington -

“What we need to do is to stay focused! We can’t be thinking of tomorrow, the next day after that or even the next week! You know why!? Because after tomorrow, there is no tomorrow! We have to take it one day at a time and concentrate on what we need to do! If we start off slow tomorrow, then we’ll have to catch up because the Ball- Busters have great pitching and they have caught us napping all through this series! We been whackin’ the ball like a rented mule, but we’ve also given up 87 friggin' runs! We have to stay focused and think about what’s at hand! All we have to do is score more runs than they do! That’s the bottom line! Are they a tough team? You bet your sweet ass they are! Yeah, they’re a tough team but we have to be tougher! The rest of the season means nothing at this point! You hear me?! Nothing! It’s a one-game series and that’s why have to stay focused! That’s how you win ball games! As far as Kwanzi Washington goes, he has to realize that not every pitch is specially designed for Kwanzi Washington! Kwanzi Washington needs to take anything that comes down and that’s when Kwanzi Washington has to really step up to the plate! DO YOU HEAR WHAT I'M SAYIN'?! AFTER TOMORROW, THERE IS NO TOMORROW! AND, WE HAVE TO STAY FOCUSED!

Jack -

“Well, Tony what do you think?”

Tony -

“Some pretty strong words from a strong competitor. Why is he so ticked off?”

Jack -

“I think one of the reasons is that they can't find a hat to fit him since his head went up three sizes. What do you think Billy-Bob?

Billy-Bob -

“When I spoke to the Crab's bat-boy, Walter Abercrombie, he said that if Kwanzi is on his game then the Ball- Busters can just pull up their pants and call a cab because they ain’t getting any tonight. All hell is gonna break loose. He said he will make sure Kwanzi has all the comforts of home so he can stay loose and focus. Roosevelt really feels strongly about that. He also said Kwanzi requires full use of a Lazy-Boy recliner, plenty of water bottles, and a yoga mat always nearby so he can meld with the spirits. Not to mention the twelve human growth hormone shots. Once he feels the karma, then its ‘Katie, bar the door, daddy’s coming home with a snoot full and all he wants is you.

Don’t forget now, about my little friend from the country where tacos are king, Hector "Pepe" Valenzuela. For a guy that only stands five feet-three, he packs a pretty mean wallop in that bat of his. That bat hits the ball harder than two-dollar whore’s head hitting a headboard while getting a little "how-do-you-do" if you know what I’m sayin’.Of course, his 52 inch biceps might have something to do with that. Plus he can run like ten cops are chasing him. He could easily rack up 100 yards if he gets the ball enough! If I’m Roosevelt and batting after Valenzuela, I’m thinking “Oh baby, daddy’s gonna get some sugar tonight!

Jack -

“Speaking of Valenzuela, I understand we have him on the line now for a live interview.”

Hector -

“Hola?” (Hello?)

Jack -

“Hector, I hope you’re feeling okay. How do you feel about facing the Ball-Busters tonight?”

Hector -

“Que?” (What?)

Jack -

“I said, how do you feel about dealing with the Ball-Busters tonight?”

Hector -

“Que? Que?” (What?! What?!)

Jack -

“Hector, can you hear me? I don’t think he can.”

Hector -

“Yo no puedo dir nada.” (I can’t hear anything.)

Jack -

“Apparently we are having some technical difficulties.

Hector -

“Quita esta camara fuera de mi cara! (Get this camera out of my face! )

Jack -

“It’s just the wonder of live television. Anything can happen.”

Hector -

“De todas maneyas. Que demonios yo estoy haciendo aqui? (What the hell am I doing here anyway?)

Jack -

While we’re waiting for the bugs to be worked out, we’ll wrap it up with our final segment in which our experts make their own predictions. How about you Tony?”

Tony -

“I pick the Crabs, I guess.”

Jack -

“Wish to add anything to that?”

Tony -

“No, not really.”

Jack -

“Why are you even here Tony?”

Tony -

“I’m afraid I don’t know that either. My editor just told me to show up. I usually cover the business page. But, as they say, a buck is a buck.”

Jack -

“Yeah, well thanks for nothing. Let’s end it with Billy-Bob.”

Billy-Bob -

“It’s like the first base coach of the Crabs, Theodore Patzaronga told me while we were knocking back a couple of cold ones and hiding the syringes, if the pitchers pitch and the hitters hit, then this game is gonna be more explosive than my Grandfather after eating the Super Deluxe burrito dinner at Taco Bell. He also said ‘Damn, Billy- Bob, it don’t get much better‘n this’ as he was swatting fly’s out of his face. He said that what the Crabs need to do is play fundamental, heads up ball and stay focused. If the Crabs stay focused and win, you’ll have to slap your Mama because she’s just gonna be so happy. It’s gonna be a rip snorter either way. Who's playing the half-time show?“

Jack -

“Thanks so much Billy-Bob. We always enjoy you’re insightful commentaries. That just about wraps up this edition of ‘Sport Roundtable.’ Don’t forget, if you're in a pool, pick the Crabs! Our next broadcast will be after the big game, win or lose so settle in tomorrow and enjoy the game.”

Patches The Cat

The cat sat on the arm of the sofa. He had a very stern look of intent written all over him. He was crouching, staring at the overstuffed easy chair that was about five feet away. Very silent. Very intent. His tail just hanging from his body, idle except for the tip that was moving back and forth like a slow metronome, just half-an-inch from the sofa cushion.

He stared at the chair's arm. Nothing else that happened in the room mattered. His only intent was to jump to that chair from the sofa. He stared almost as if he were stalking some sort of prey that had eluded him up until now. A ten-inch long tiger, stalking its prey. After about ten minutes of this silence, the muscles in his body tightened even more than they already were. With a movement that epitomized the phrase, cat-like, he lunges toward the chair, almost as if he were going in slow motion. Springing from the sofa, front arms extended, back legs pushing him off, he leaps, flying through the air with grace and poise.

Then almost like one of the old Road Runner cartoons, he misses, missing the chair by a fraction of an inch. Clawing furiously at the material but not quite catching his nails on it, he slips and falls to the floor in a crumpled heap. Before that, it seemed like he was suspended in mid-air but now he lays there for a couple of seconds. He has a look on his face as if he is saying to himself, “What the hell just happened here?” He realizes that he didn't make it, and he slowly gets up and walked out of the room only to return later and try again.

This is just one example of some the bizarre things my Grandmother's cat, Patches, used to do. He was probably the funniest creature I have ever known. I’ve always loved animals because they are so natural and they are what they are. The funny things they do never seem to be forced and I liked being around Patches, simply because he was just so damned entertaining.

I’ve been around cats all my life. I had them as pets as a child and like anybody else who has a pet, people like to have cats around because they provide good company or, if for no other reason, than just to have another heartbeat in the house.

For as long as I can remember, my grandmother had cats roaming around. She never really had too many at one time, usually just one or two, but she always had them. And she spoiled them rotten. I always said that if there such a thing as reincarnation, I wanted to come back as a cat and live with my grandmother because not only did she cook especially for them, but they pretty much got away with everything. Their life basically was sleeping, eating, playing and sleeping some more and she adored them. Meanwhile, they were pampered like kings. I have to admit that I was more than a little jealous. Over the years, the different animals tended to blend in with each other so that I could remember some but not all of them. Then one day, Goldie and Patches arrived and left their mark on our lives.

Goldie was your typical golden and white cat and she was quite beautiful. Of course there is nothing cuter than a kitten but she was especially pretty. Everybody thought she reminded him or her of Morris the Cat from the television commercials, but I always thought she was much better looking. She was born with double-paws. In other words, it looked like her front paws were double in size as if she had two on each front leg. I thought it was a very unique feature that made her special.

While everyone thought Goldie was beautiful, Patches was also quite cute. But he was different somehow. It wasn’t like he was ugly or anything, far from it. He was your basic white cat with dark brown and black patch markings on his body. Thus the name, ‘Patches.’ He was thin as a rail but I always thought he had the most beautiful black eyes. Eyes that were very intent and always on alert, looking for something. I used to love to pick him up and have staring contests with him. Never once did his eyes waver from mine. He just stared and stared, looking very intent until I put him down. People didn’t make fun of Patches or anything like that but they just kind of accepted the fact that he was just kind of, there and he made a very good companion to Goldie.

My grandparent's lived in Jamaica Plain, Mass., which a part of Boston. They lived in a second floor apartment that had a long hallway from the kitchen to the front living room. Being two very active young kittens, they turned this hall into their private little raceway. They used to have a grand time running up and down this corridor chasing and nipping at each other. Because of Goldie's double paws, they also sounded like a herd of elephants and were especially loud during the evening. Since cats are nocturnal animals anyway, this went on pretty much every night. I remember watching late night TV late and hearing them come galloping along. They were very good at stopping at the right moment and sliding halfway down the hall. They were a lot of fun to watch. Most times, they would just end up in a heap of yellow, white and black, and they always looked like they were having a good time.

As Patches got older, the shakier he became. Whoever coined the phrase “nervous as a cat” most definitely had Patches in mind. He wasn't the type of cat that would suddenly spring up on your lap hoping to get petted. He didn’t like to be picked up and held unless it was on his terms. When my female cousins would visit, the first thing they wanted to do was to hold the cats. Goldie would go along with it and probably liked all the attention because it usually meant getting a good belly rub. Meanwhile, Patches would have a look on his face of absolute stark terror. His ears would be backwards, pressed flush against his head and his eyes would be bulging out as far as they go without falling out of his head. Ironically, he would not scratch and try to claw his way out of their grip but would just be kind of be frozen in this position until he was put down. Once he was put down, he then made his escape and disappeared for a couple of hours.

He would just as soon just sit in the corner, keeping a watchful eye on the world around him. This is not to say he didn’t like the occasional back-rub as well but I always felt that he preferred being on his own. Like all cats, the main thing he did was sleep, mostly in a sunny spot. When did this, he kind of lost all inhibitions and would stretch out as far as he could get, mainly on his back. It actually looked kind of painful, but relaxing at the same time. It was as if he magically managed to stretch himself to look like he was six feet long.

After a while, my grandparents moved to Brockton, which is about forty miles south of Boston. They bought a house and naturally Goldie and Patches came along for the big ride. They were very amusing when they first arrived, checking out the new digs. They also quickly established their own little territories. Patches liked to be down in the cellar but also liked the living room quite a bit. Goldie had the run of the den and the upstairs area as well. This is where Patches would continually try to jump from the couch to the chair.

I witnessed these episodes more than once. For some reason, Patches just could not complete the jump as much as he tried. And God knows he tried. Some times he made but most times, he didn’t. One time, he actually hung by one claw one time until I got up to help him. I often wondered if he had a depth perception problem with his sight.

As much as I liked Patches, I couldn’t help but tease him. I would be in the living room reading a magazine or watching TV and out of the corner of my eye, I would see Patches walking very slowly, almost slithering into the room. He would crouch down, looking around, very aware of his surroundings. But, he would be literally shaking as well. Twitching would be more like it. It looked as though he came was coming off a three-day bender and was still trying to find his way around. I wouldn’t do anything but watch him. When the time was right, all I had to do was move my foot about a half an inch and he would literally jump straight up in the air and bolt out of the room. Up and zoom! Just like the old cartoons where the coyote would be suspended for a moment before he took off. I know it was a little nasty on my part but his reaction was funny as hell.

In spite of that, he kind of took a liking to me. I always paid attention because I always felt kind of sorry for him. During that time, I slept over their house on weekends. Since he liked the cellar, he became my foot warmer. The unfortunate thing about it though was that, when he slept on my bed, he liked to sleep right on my feet and if I moved or disturbed him in the slightest way, he would give me a look that would stop a clock. As if to say “Who the hell are you and why are you in my domain?” I would just look at him and say ‘Excuse me, your majesty” and he would put his head back down and fall asleep again.

He also had a very nasty habit of sleeping on my chest. Yes, on my chest. Why he found this so pleasurable was beyond me but he did it all the time. I would be asleep on my back and he would crawl up on my chest to rest. Maybe he liked the fact that my chest would go up and down. The thing was though; he would sleep with his face about an inch away from mine. So, when I woke up, the very first thing I would see would be this two big cat eyes staring back at me. Naturally this would startle the hell out of me and probably accounts for any anxieties I have today.

I have so many good memories of Patches. One of them involved the time we took him to the vets for his check-up. It was obvious that Patches didn’t want anything to do with this and when they tried to put him in his traveling box, he put his feet out along the edges of the entrance, not allowing them to put him in the box. We would remove the front two paws and get them in the hole and while we tried to get the back paws in, the front paws would reappear and block it again. Once we got the front paws in again, the back paws would come back. This went on for about five minutes before somebody realized that if two people held his legs at the same time, we would be able to get him into the box.

Once we got him into the box and started on the trip to the vets, Patches, thinking he was probably doomed, literally started moaning. But moaning in a way that sounded like he was saying “Oh no!” He would say this very slowly so it sounded like “Ooooooh nooooo!” Since we were taking him to a vet in Boston, we listened to this throughout the whole trip. He would quiet down a bit and just meow but then he would pause as if he realized that something dreadful was happening and would continue with moaning.

Patches was born with a hernia on his belly, which really was just a little lump on his underside. It was no big deal and it never really bothered him at all. When we brought him in, the vet naturally wanted to see if this lump would be detrimental to Patches health so he examined it. He squeezed it while he doing so. When he squeezed it, Patches would make a loud meow noise. But, the very second you stopped squeezing, Patches would stop meowing. It didn’t look like Patches was in any pain at all. He just kind of stood there and let the doctor do his thing.

I think the vet however had a somewhat strange of humor. Either that he was a bit of a sadist because once he realized that Patches could stop meowing on a dime, he squeezed it again. Again, when he stopped, Patches stopped. So it sounded a little like this;

Squeeze

Meeeow

Squeeze

Meeeow

Sque--

Meeo---

Sq---

Me---

S---

M----

I know all this sounds a little cruel but, like I said, it didn’t look like Patches was in any sort of pain. He just stood there with almost no visible emotion or movement except for his mouth opening to meow. I think that’s what made it so amusing to me He was like a statue with a moveable jaw.

The vet did find something a tad wrong with him but it wasn’t serious. It did mean however, that Patches had to take a pill to cure it. It literally took three of us to give this pill to him. One had to hold him down. This was of course after we finally caught him. While that person also tried to hold his feet together, another one had to open his jaw while yet another one tried to jam the pill into his mouth. You couldn’t just pop it into his mouth because by this point, Patches would be clawing, spitting and hissing with the best of them. He was also too smart for the old put-it-in-his food routine so we had to go through this until he felt better.

My grandfather’s favorite chair was his recliner. He always had one and it was his chair. When I was a little kid, my cousins and I would vie for the privilege of sitting in Grandpa’s chair. Of course this would be while he wasn’t in the room because as soon as he showed up, we would vacate it. He wouldn’t demand it but would instead, tease us into thinking we doing something wrong. None times out of ten, we were the ones who sat in it.

Grandpa loved sleeping in the chair especially after he had a couple of beers. He was a heavy smoker and he always had a cigarette in his hand. For some reason though, he always seemed to know when he was going to fall asleep in his chair because he would have a cigarette dangling out of his mouth but it would never be lit. How he knew this, I don’t know. I always thought it was just pure dumb luck that he never set the house on fire.

But there he was, sitting in the chair, cigarette dangling and jumping up and down every time Grandpa snored. Goldie and Patches found this cigarette completely fascinating and would sit on the back of his chair playfully trying to bat this cigarette out of his mouth. Once and a while, they would miss and accidentally brush against Grandpa’s cheek. When this happened, he would try to brush it away like a bug had landed and Patches and Goldie would pause and wait. Once Grandpa relaxed, they would start in again. They never did get the thing out of his mouth but they certainly tried their best

Patches became a very good friend to me and it seemed like I was the only one he would allow to pet and hold. Of course, I couldn’t hold him for too long. Like I said, he liked to do things on his own terms. He’s long gone now but I have some great memories of the cat that couldn’t jump