Circus of Dirt

You know it’s going to be an awesome day when I break sleep from a Mohawk Indian driving a small orange car from the 1970’s or 1980’s. Then I saw him later at church in my row in full headdress.
6:15 alarm.
7:00 departure.
Breakfast burrito on the run. Jug of milk for Puck…
“This came from a goat,” he established his thought on the subject very quickly.
All.
Day.
Softball.

So… I’m thinking that church softball leagues may be just a little high-strung.
If that’s an understatement I haven’t realized up until this profound moment of first-discovery, then I apologize for this public-knowledge repetition. Respectfully, I surmise that church softball leagues are primarily composed of men who didn’t quite fulfill childhood dreams of pro stardom, and therefore – though maybe content with current life analysis – experience recharge, a resurgence of old-days energy and competition on even these stringy ramshackle fields we like to employ for these sorts of events. Guts, sweat, and… temper. They departed the tournament with just a handful of inappropriate exclamations of anger and only one possible concussion.
So… I guess it could have been worse.
On the plus side, Puck raked in some fine treasure. A bag of chocolate chip peanut butter cookies baked by Anneliese, broccoli-brain creations from some bush-tree by the power-plant fence (or whatever it was), a few snazzy looks at run-by trains, a whole bottle of cold blue Gatorade first-taste from “Mr. Richard”, and piles of “cherries” that must have been the actual models for Hi Ho Cheerio. I even found another mini crinoid in the parks-and-rec rock box. Dad treated us to lunch, including a fish sandwich for myself. Dad enjoyed a frozen strawberry lemonade himself. It all sounds so much more delicate than the actual name of the eatery itself, which shall remain unnamed. Even got a text from Gloria, relaxing on the ship with an iced tea. And the Bear received his standard compliment, this time from his teammates. Granted, it helped he was wearing a Cardinals cap…
“OLeif, you look so much like Jason Motte.”
“Have you seen me play today?”
“Hey, he used to be a terrible catcher too.”

Somehow, my sun-baked boys weren’t ready for the show to end.
So we hit up the mall.
The Mills Mall.
The labyrinth of everything you don’t need.
We exited with a thin plastic bag containing one item and one item only – a Colombian flag decal for the rearview window of the car.

Let me clear up this one small thing though…

There’s not much I enjoy about shopping.

Nothing, actually.

It’s like I’ve waded into the Amazon – jungle and river combined. As soon as I push past the croaky glass door of a shopping mall, I feel the need for warrior face paint and a beaded ceremonial spear just to pry away the sucking leeches of heckling advertising for products I have absolutely no intention of purchasing.
I understand the job of Sales Associate must, at worst, be a simple version of hell and, at best, be — terrifying. I understand, Sales Associates of the Midwest, that you are only fulfilling job requirements, statutes, and contracts ensnaring your souls to the kingdom of horror, God love you… and I ask pardon for not aiding your commission in any way. But I simply cannot bring myself to the act of actual purchase. There is something… unholy… about it. But rather, I cannot pretend interest in this profuse pastime. It is as dull to me as parlour games — reading tea leaves in cups, charades. Shadow puppets.
However, I condemn no soul who loves this apparently American thrill. I truly do not. Thank goodness for you, or the economy would implode. I just can’t… get up the guts to wander endless upon endless aisles of stuff. It gives me the yawns. What can I say?
So I do apologize.
So why would I generally visit this establishment at all, you may ask?
Maybe for a paper cup of heavily buttered soft pretzel bites that seem to be sold in no other vicinity?
[Sly dogs.]
But certainly… No…
Then again… there’s this place called Old Navy.
I haven’t really ever purchased anything for myself there. [I still remember the terror trip of my sister (nameless) who bullied her way into an expensive pair of red chinos in the early 2000’s.] But they’ve got this addicting gizmo, something I liked to call a “bubble gum machine” as a kid. Though this fatter machine spits out five-year-old-boy-fist-sized rubber balls. In all sorts of wiggly colors and patterns.
How much do you pay for this small luxury?
A quarter.
Yes, a measly twenty-five cents to light up my fauxhawk-headed son’s eyes. One coin in his chubby palm, and the sweet deal is completed.
Shopping accomplished.
Sorry for that tirade… it was meant with no malintent.

A 29 minute phone call with Joe ended my evening.
The kid’s ready to come home.