The old man was reading the sports page on the toilet. The paper was giving him gas. In between farts, he was talking to himself. Which sometimes freaked the dog out a little. Like he was worried there’d be a test later. Maybe just knew they were alone in the house.
The old man read the brief note “The league is reviewing whether the act of jumping on a player’s back to intentionally foul him should be interpreted as a flagrant foul.” Most places that would be a felony, he mumbled.
The old man read the brief note again. “The league is reviewing whether the act of jumping on a player’s back to intentionally foul him should be interpreted as a flagrant foul.” Just crazy. Like something his neighbors might say. Or, worse, argue about.
Enough to make your ass hurt.
Politics were covered like the sports and sports pages looked like a combination financial report and the police blotter. Give me ten million a year, he thought and I guarantee I will stay out of trouble. He was doing it now for free, pretty much.
The old man read the papers to see who was buying houses nearby and who died. The turnover was nothing if not steady. House prices were climbing back up a little. And the obits were amazing. Who knew there were so many folks out there who all lit up a room and was friends to everybody and performed so much community service?
And not everybody actually dropped dead. A neighbor down the road went to ‘A Home.’ Seems she was on a number of confusing medications. And she was the kind of lady who followed instructions. Why she’d become a Republican in the first place. And if she was supposed to Take Two Upon Rising, she was going to do exactly that. Turns out she napped three times a day and almost overdosed herself.
Some moved north to be closer to the kids. Like their kids wanted to take care of them. A few came back. They’d mumble something about grandchildren and winters if you asked.
Some kids came back with them. Usually from New Jersey. Seems bad as this place is here, it’s better than New Jersey. Maybe he should write a letter to the editor, suggest the Chamber’s next bumper sticker: Better Than NJ.
Judging by the looks of her, she was crowned Miss Hooterville 1964 and never got over it. Huge chest, plaid with ruffles, tight jeans and a blonde wig. Drove a big red diesel rig right down the middle of the road and it was up to you to get out of her way. She might wave at the old man as he high-tailed to safety. Bright false teeth shining, she undressed him with her eyes. He didn’t figure she could see so good. Too much medication.
Giselle started to go downhill when her errant son moved back in. Saw that a lot in the great recession. Perfectly groomed home, manicured lawn, polished mailbox, old lady working all the time. A good neighbor except for the truck.
Next thing you know. The old man is listening to more Kid Rock than he can tolerate, like the CIA playing AC/DC to drive Noriega crazy. Lawn going to hell. Smudges on the mailbox. And a living room sofa – striped in an Indian pattern – in the driveway because his mother won’t let him smoke in the house.
Just came jogging right up to the old man. He said his name was Bubba Roy and he was something of a scientist. Mostly self-taught.
Finally able to flee home, the old man asked his wife, remember Reverend Jim on Taxi? Crazy guy with weird eyes and strange hair?
Of course. Loved Reverend Jim!, she says.
Like that, only shorter. And he never stank on TV.
