Where Are My People And What Have You Done With Them?
SOME DAYS NOTHING MAKES SENSE.
Why is that? This morning has been one of those days. Everything has been a series of nonsequiters come to life. Imagine letting a six year old edit the film of a motion picture. There would be some serious and confusing jump cuts. That is what today has been so far.
This morning I slept in a bit – causing me to get to the Chapel at St. Arbucks a few minutes later than usual. That must have been when the crazy body doubles were sneaked in.
On most mornings the retired school teacher is chatting away about his family or golf. Not today. Today he was going on and on about the cost of season tickets for Indiana State University basketball games. When he asked me what I thought about that I could only answer, “I don’t know anything about that…and I don’t care.”
I figured that would spur him to change the subject. I was wrong. My wiseacre comment was just kerosene onto the fire. He then asked my opinion about the University giving a scholarship to a 6ft 43in basketball player from Nigeria. How in the heck does a school in Terre Haute, Indiana recruit someone from Nigeria? Terre Haute (That’s French for “How much are Season Tickets?”).
After my friend struggled trying to pronounce the new basketball phenom’s name – it had 19 consonants and no vowels – I asked if could this new player be related to that Nigerian Prince who used to send me all of those emails telling me that he wanted to share his millions with me? All I got as an answer was a rather huffy, “NO!”
I sat quietly wondering when this temporal anomaly was going to end when I got my answer – “Not quite yet, Bucko.”
Several mornings a week our group of aging bozos is graced with the presence of the lovely Tondelea, an ER nurse at the nearby hospital. She rarely stays for more than a few minutes as her duty calls. Today was different. Today she came in carrying a large tote bag and, with hot chocolate in one hand, she began to stitch the hem a very nice evening gown for her daughter. Needles and pins were mixed on the table top with my coffee and notebook, a cup of hot chocolate alongside a ham and cheese sandwich. Unusual.
I found it difficult to rationalize the image of this talented and no-nonsense medical professional sitting in the middle of St. Arbucks with a needle and thread dangling from the corner of her mouth. One day she is in there dealing with a strung out young man and the next she is being Mommy, sewing away surrounded by the bustling foot traffic all juiced on coffee and sugar.
I’m hoping that tomorrow things will return to what I laughingly refer to as “Normal.” I want there to be updates on Chupacabra sightings, Pickle Ball Tournaments for Senior Citizens, and Potholes on every street.