I'm not certain I heard you...
Puck emerged from the kitchen before seven o’clock that morning, gasping for air, as if he had just swallowed ghost chilies.
“I almost ran out of the house, it tasted so bad!”
I raised an eyebrow at him; I know I did.
“It’s water, Puck.”
Arriving at the office first on an early gray-wrapped morning with no one around keeps me watching for shadows in the corners. And, whether I want it or not, an endless reel of “I always feel like, somebody’s watching me”… runs through my head. It doesn’t actually bother me; just happened to hit the brainwaves today. Punch, punch. Click, click. Ring, ring. The tones of an office Friday. Plus a bento of cheddar quesadilla and honey dew melon. I have to bribe myself a little bit at least.
I had to get back and pick up Puck before Carrie-Bri left in the late afternoon. Grandma Combs was treating her and Joe to dinner and a production of “Bunzilla” [yes, bunnies and werewolves] at the Florissant Civic Center. Meanwhile, Carrie was working on a batch of braided fig, olive oil, and sea salt challah bread, as she caught me up on Francis’ latest escapades…
“He looked so completely sick yesterday,” she was saying. “He got up at three to work the morning shift at the Y, didn’t get back till three in the afternoon, then had swim practice that night, and only had two chocolate long johns to eat all day. Plus, he never drinks water. Pretty much only milk.”
I heard the battle cry of kidney stones somewhere over the hills. Although it doesn’t surprise me. Then there’s Linus, busy with a photo shoot for a convent, apparently, or something like that…
“’Yes, Sister Martha. Yes, I agree. The sunset will be beautiful for a shoot tomorrow. Yes, I agree…”
“Ugh, I hate dishes,” Carrie mumbled to herself, sudsing up the sink.
“Well, get used to it,” Joe mocked. “’Cause you’re a woman.”
“Well, get used to not eating then, ’cause you’ll be single,” Carrie retorted.
“No such thing,” Joe grinned, bracing long arms against the top of the doorway. “It’s called McDonald’s.”
I think Puck honestly believes I can talk to the animals. Or at least, if not talk to them, understand and interpret. He asks me on a daily basis to tell him “what Crackers is saying”, in a “Crackers voice”. Can’t say I’m spot on with the translation, but Puck usually seems to be satisfied. Meanwhile he was busy in the front yard…
“I’m stuffing all the snake holes with rocks!” he bugled to me from the porch, as all the kids wheeled back in from school snazzed up in Pujols and World Series tees.
Fortunately for my game-mongering self, Gloria had invited us out to watch the big one in the newly electrified basement. This meant a bonus for Puck, who had been getting that hankering to spend the night again. Maybe if I also offered him a fluffy mattress and thick strips of sizzling bacon every morning, he would be inclined to hang around a little longer.
We commenced with the first pitch at 7:07, joined by Rose on her way in from the city. My heart was already thumping away at 7:04. This is why we don’t have cable anymore.
Rose tucked herself into a fuzzy forest green blanket.
“I’m a humongous fungus,” she announced, after a long work week, and rocked from side to side. “I don’t know what a fungus does, but I’m just going to do this.”
The Bear just dug into a bag of exotic purple and ruby potato chips. Although I yelled plenty at the television, The Bear only advised the inanimate objects to cool it, after the block of cheese was knocked off the coffee table…
“Calm down cheese. You’re drunk.”
Sometimes even I forget how angry I can get at baseball games. I’m sure the collapse had something to do with the temperature of the turf or the angle of the lights, or some other trifle like that.