#UnfinishedBusiness

Francis needed assistance motoring his truck to the mechanic for more repairs. I followed in the Fit. We picked up Dairy Queen on the drive back. Linnea-Irish packed us up with burgers, chicken strips, and hot fudge sundaes to go.

“You want to up-size that?” she asked Francis over the intercom.

“Sure,” Francis grinned, then turned back to me. “I’m not sure what I just ordered.”

It was a lot of food.

When we got back, Francis received an unwelcome letter grade in the mail from the community college.

“What?!”

And disappeared outside. A few moments later he walked back inside with his blowtorch, leaving a smoldering pile of ash on the back patio.

“That’s what I think of that!”

Then he fell asleep on the couch.

“PUCK! PUCK! PUCK! CAN YOU PLAY?!”

We had just pulled up the driveway and already the neighbor girls were invading.

Chicken baked in the oven while Puck perched in the front yard tree wearing his bicycle helmet. Three neighbor girls watched. Yesterday there were five girls socializing with him under the treehouse at the Big House. Fortunately he is still blissfully unaware of this female admiration.

Knock, knock, knock.

One of the girls at the door.

“What’s up?”

“My eye hurts.”

I examined it; sent her home for an ice pack. A few minutes later…

Knock, knock, knock.

Another girl.

“What’s up?”

“I have something in my eye too.”

Sometimes I think these kids forget they live two doors down with their parents.

Past bedtime, I thought Puck was working on falling asleep back there. It was about 7:45, and normally he’d be asleep. But, no. Next thing I knew, a kid in Batman underpants came flying into the hallway singing his own theme song for effect.

“DA DA DA DAAAAAA!”

And so sometime after ten o’clock the season came to a close. 230 days of hard-fought scrappy play-your-heart-out baseball. You can’t ask for anything else.