Chapter Three of John Doe

The Yankees won game one 2-1, walking it off in the bottom of the 9th on a single by Bill Dickey. John listened to the game on the radio in the parlor with a few other men. The entire game a took a little over an hour and a half, which seemed awfully fast to John for some reason. John had no memory of what the score of the game would be, only that he was certain that the Yankees would win. After the game he took a shower and removed a pair of pants and a clean shirt out of his dresser. Then he started walking back to the hospital. He wanted to be there when Carol arrived for her night shift to thank her for the bread. He remembered that she arrived every evening by 6 o’clock so he made sure he was sitting at one of the benches in front of the hospital by 5:30. He saw her step off the bus at the corner. She was exactly how he remembered her, stiffly starched uniform, her hair stuffed securely underneath her cap. She walked briskly, not looking up from the pavement as she drew near to him. He stuck out his hand and touched her arm—Hello, Carol.

It had startled her and when she looked up at him she looked momentarily frightened, but then she recognized his face and smiled.

Oh John, you scared me for a second! Its so good to see you. Why are you here? Are you not well?

No, no. I’m fine. I just wanted to thank you for the basket you left for me. I had no way to contact you so I took a chance that I would see you here.

Carol glanced down at her watch and then back at John. I’m so glad you liked the bread. I made it myself. She reached out and took his hand in hers. There’s so much I would love to talk with you about…if you’ve found work? how you like the boarding house? have you remembered anything?…but I’ve got to check in in just a minute.

Then she quickly dug through her purse and pulled out a small notepad and a pencil, scribbled something on it and handed it to John as she started to step away from him and towards the revolving door of the hospital. That’s my home address. I live there with my mother. I have this Saturday off. Why don’t you come by for lunch so we can catch up? As she was about to enter the revolving door she shouted back to him…I hope to see you around noon! Then she was gone.

The next day The Yankees won game two 4-0 when Monte Pearson threw a complete game 2 hit shutout. The game was even shorter than the first one, lasting less than 90 minutes. John was amazed at how fast the games were. Again, the outcome was never in doubt in John’s mind although the only player’s name that rung a bell was Joe DiMaggio. The first time he heard the announcer say his name it felt like a small electric charge flickered across his brain. The name sounded beautiful and familiar but John wasn’t sure why. 

The next day was Friday and Oscar was in a particularly good mood around the breakfast table due to the fact that it was the day of the month that his disability check from The Army came in the mail. Oscar made the announcement with great enthusiasm. John had wondered how Oscar managed without a job, although he was sure that everyone else wondered the same thing about him. John’s curiosity got the best of him…I’m sorry Oscar, but how did you get disabled?”

Everyone at the table looked up from their plates at John, then shifted their eyes towards Oscar. The room was suddenly as silent as a tomb.

Oscar’s face which had been alive with excitement had gone dark…I was in France during the war…Argonne. They been sending me my disabled pension every month since. Least they could do.

John felt bad for asking. He hadn’t noticed a disability, no missing fingers, not even a limp. Maybe he had been shot. Suddenly, John hoped that Oscar would drop the subject.

Got hit a couple of times and gassed once. But they gave me the disability on the count of my nerves was shot. ‘Shell shock’, they call it.

John didn’t respond. Wishing the conversation would die out from neglect.

You look too young to have been in that fight there John. How old are you anyway?

John reminded himself then and there to never start another conversation until his memory returned. There was no telling where they might lead and what awkward moments might arise. He had been asked a question which he didn’t know the answer to but had no desire to admit such a thing to this group of men, or anyone else. No where near as old as you Oscar, he answered with a false smile as he took his plate over to the sink. He was able to slip out of the kitchen and down the steps to his room without any further inquiries, but when he shut the door behind him he sat down at the small desk and found the note that had come with Carol’s bread basket. he flipped the card over on its blank side and wrote—World War I, battle of Argonne Forrest…Joe DiMaggio…Yankees sweep the Reds 1939 World Series…Hitler invades Poland, World War II begins…lunch with Carol tomorrow.

He spent Friday walking all over Charlottesville. He felt stronger and the sun was bright in the sky. The Indian summer heat wave had broken and there was a whiff of autumn in the breeze. Walking through the town aimlessly hadn’t been his plan for the day but each street beckoned him further along. There was no game today. What else was he going to do, he reasoned. The thought occurred to him that perhaps he would happen upon a place or person that was familiar. But everything seemed brand new, like touring another country where you didn’t know the language.

Eventually he turned a corner and found an impressive building, with ornate columns two stories high along the front. Above the ironworks door were the words, “Jefferson  Madison Regional Library”. John felt it again, the momentary jolt of recognition, an electric charge through his mind—Thomas Jefferson…James Madison…he whispered to himself, then took the card out of his pocket and jotted their names down.

He saw a lamppost with a large clock where the light should have been. It was 3:00. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He stopped at the first bar he came to, a respectful place with table cloths on every table, although they all looked dirty. The place was half full of people eating sandwiches and drinking beer out of plain clear glasses. He found a seat at the bar, ordered a bowl of tomato soup, a ham sandwich and what looked to be the only beer the place had on draft, one that was unknown to him…Baltz. The soup was decent, hot and flavorful. The sandwich was alright although the bread tasted stale, and the beer was dreadful, a thin pale yellow brew that tasted like flavored water. It made him wonder why he had ordered it in the first place. Did he like beer…from before? For John, everything about life had been divided between the baffling now and the unknown before. It was exhausting, but each small memory, so far limited to history and baseball, had energized him, filling him with hope that it would soon be over, that he would someday soon be made whole. But as he wandered his way back to the boarding house he wondered about how they had found him, alone, naked, bruised and battered. The thought of revisiting that reality sent a shiver through him. Maybe he didn’t want to remember and that’s why he couldn’t. The mind has reasons for keeping secrets. But every night when sleep came, so did the vivid scenes from the old house, clear and precise, like a play without a plot, each scene suggestive of nothing.

When he woke up on Saturday he took his second and final allowed shower of the week. The water was lukewarm and the bar of soap he used was scratchy but it felt glorious to be clean again. It was one of the few pleasures of this new life. He had not yet come to grips with just how bad the men of the boarding house smelled, not just them but almost everyone he encountered, except the nurses at the hospital who all smelled like disinfectant. As he thought more about it he realized that his new world was filled with odd smells, the outdoor rancid rainy odor of wool clothes, the strident smell of gasoline and burning oil from the cars as they passed by, the creeping, hovering stench of mothballs. he took a final look at himself in the mirror, recognizing nothing, then started the long walk to Carol’s house.

The closer he got to the place the nicer the houses looked. The lawns were bigger and better kept, the cars parked on the street were less bedraggled, shinier. He finally reached the address Carol had scribbled on the card and was astonished at the place, a stately Victorian house with two curved gazebos at both ends of the front porch that ran the entire width of the house, ornately carved gingerbread trim sprinkled everywhere, freshly painted and enchanting. He rechecked the address. It wasn’t at all what he expected. As he was walking up the steps Carol appeared at the door. It was the first time he had seen her out of her nurse’s uniform. She had long brown hair and seemed shorter somehow, but her face and eyes were the same, kind and welcoming.

I’m so glad you came! And right on time. Come on in, lunch is almost ready.

The inside of the house looked exactly the way John had thought it should…polished furniture, artistic paintings of sweeping landscaped on the wall, and sparkling clean. John walked hesitantly, looking for signs of the mother and feeling out of place. Carol led him into the kitchen where a table for two had been set next to an oversized fireplace. Have a seat, John. Can’t wait to hear how things are going with you. She sat across from him at the table. Hope you like manicotti. Its in the oven now. It will be a while before its ready. 

John wanted to speak, he needed to thank her for her kindness and for the gracious invitation, but was strangely unable to find the words. He just sat there growing more embarrassed with each passing moment. What the hell was wrong with him, he thought. Carol’s intuition came to the rescue of the awkward moment. She leaned in and said, Its alright, John. Everything is going to be ok.

How do you know? Everything is not ok and hasn’t been ok for weeks now. Do you know something that I don’t?

Carol smiled knowingly, No, but I have faith.

In what?

In you…and in the amazing regenerative capabilities of the human body. I’ve been a nurse for eleven years now and I’ve seen some horrible things as well as my share of miraculous things. I have complete faith that you’re going to get your memory back.

It was probably the hundredth time she had told him that everything was going to be ok. It was her most common refrain in the hospital. She probably said it to every patient she had ever had. It most likely had become second nature, one of the soft and dependable lies that nurses tell even the most hopeless cases in their charge. Consequently, it meant nothing. John knew it and thought that most likely Carol knew it too. But what else would a good nurse say? Sorry, this will probably kill you. I give you three weeks, four weeks tops.

Carol took the manicotti out of the oven, served it up on two blue plates and sat a basket of bread between them in the center of the table.

I guess you made this bread too?

Yep. This is my mother’s old recipe. Then she picked the entire loaf up and split it in two, placing one half on her plate and the other on John’s. Then she poured some oil out of a green bottle on two small bowls next to each plate. She dipped a piece of her bread in the oil and dabbed it for a while, showing John the way forward without words. John took a bite and was overwhelmed by the comfort of it all. 

Where is your mother? He asked while taking his first bite of the manicotti.

She’s resting now. I take care of her. A nurse comes in while I’m at work but I’m with her every night and on the weekends. She has problems with her memory too. Several years ago she started forgetting things and now she no longer even knows who I am. The doctor’s call it dementia. Dad passed years ago so she just has me now.

They sat quietly eating for a few minutes. Then Carol asked, so how are things with you?

John wanted more than anything at that moment to tell her a comforting story, his equivalent of “everything is going to be ok,” but what came out was—Carol, I’m not from here.

Carol lifted her napkin to her mouth and returned it, perfectly folded, beside her plate. How can you be sure? If you haven’t recovered your memory naturally none of Charlottesville would seem familiar. I would think that considering where you were found its more likely than not that you are from this general area at least.

John took a sip of his wine then attempted to clarify—No, that’s not what I meant. I don’t believe that I’m from…this time. 

Carol’s smile faded slightly as she stared at him across the table…I’m not sure I understand.

Can’t say that I do either, honestly. But…I know things that I shouldn’t know.

What kind of things? Carol folded her hands together and placed them under her chin.

John hesitated, questioning whether he should be honest. There was a risk that he might repel the only person he knew that could be considered a friend with such a tale. But he felt the powerful desperation of loneliness, of having no one to share his doubts with, no one with whom to commiserate. He decided to take the chance.

Do you remember the day at the hospital when I asked you what year it was? The next morning I asked the nurse to bring me a newspaper, but I already knew what the headline would be. I knew that on September the 1st of 1939–Hitler would have invaded Poland, knew it with absolutely no doubt or hesitation.

Maybe it was your mind playing tricks on you. Maybe you heard us talking about it during the night. It was all anyone was talking about that night.

That’s not the only thing, Carol. I was in the parlor last week and heard the announcer talking about the upcoming World Series between the Yankees and the Reds. Somehow…I knew in that very instant, without the shadow of a doubt that the Yankees would sweep the Reds in 4 games. I was so confident I had one of the men there set me up with a bookie and I placed a 25 dollar bet. They are already up 2 games to none. Game three starts in a few minutes. The Yankees will win that one too. I even knew one of the player’s name…Joe DiMaggio. 

Well, he’s a very popular player. Carol’s smile was gone and her eyes narrowed with concern.

The scariest part of all this is that I know other things too…things that won’t happen for quite a while.

Like what?

John finished the manicotti, wiped his mouth with the cloth napkins and laid it in a rumpled heap on the table.

If I tell you I’m sure you’re going to think I’m crazy and I wouldn’t blame you if you did, and if you want me to leave I will understand and I will and will never bother you again. 

Carol looked on in silence, her chin still balanced on her folded hands.

John looked up from his plate, straight into her eyes. In a couple years, on December 7th, 1941 to be precise, the Japanese are going to attack one of our naval bases at Pearl Harbor Hawaii. Over 3000 men will be killed and a few days later we will declare war on Japan and Germany. We will then be in the middle of World War II.

John…What are you saying? I can’t believe this. How do you?…I mean…how um…

I don’t know, Carol. All I know is that I am sure of it. Absolutely sure. But there’s some good news…

What good news? Carol had tears in her eyes.

The good news is that…we win.

After lunch they moved out on the front porch and listened to the game on the radio in silence. The Yankees won to go up 3-0. Carol was still trying to come to grips with John’s story, turning the impossible over and over in her mind as a cool autumn breeze drifted by. She was not ready to concede that any of it was true. She considered herself a person of science, despite the many miraculous healings she had witnessed as a nurse, in which she saw no contradiction since the miraculous were just those things that science had not yet stumbled upon. John’s story was a combination of the real trauma he had suffered and his lost memories, his mind a minefield of confusion and mystery. Predicting a sweep by the Yankees wasn’t necessarily evidence of clairvoyance, they were the three time defending champions, after all. As far as the future attack by the Japanese, she had no mitigating excuse for a prediction so specific and astonishing. But as she sat with him listening to the game she was overcome with empathy for the man. His eyes were the eyes of a lost soul, wandering in a strange land, with nothing firm to hold on to, no substantial memory to cling to except the worthless, placeless house across the street from a church. She felt drawn to him, as if he were somehow her responsibility, that she had been called by God to look after him. Despite her high regard for science, Carol still believed in God. She had found that she could not contemplate the beginning of all things without the notion of a universal power as its catalyst. But her belief in God didn’t extend to any of the earthly institutions which claimed to represent him. Her’s was a belief free of doctrine or restraints which over the years made faith both easier and far more difficult. It was easier to find God in a mountain meadow than it was inside a moldy old building. It was easier to believe in God without the doctrines of religion and the demands they made on her. But it was also harder to cling to any belief without any defining characteristics, just her own personal fancies that were subject to every fowl mood and ill wind that came along. But she felt the weight of his presence on this brisk fall afternoon and the certainty of her job…to look after and care for this strange man.

I think its safe to say that you were a big baseball fan…before. That’s a start, right?

I suppose so, John answered. I was at a park a while ago and I saw a kid playing catch with his dad and I felt a little spark. There was something soothing about it. Maybe it was something I loved from before. It would explain this business with the Yankees sweeping the Reds.

So, if they do…how much will you win? Carol managed a relaxed smile.

A hundred bucks.

Carol’s eyes brightened, the surprise lighting up her face. Are you kidding? Well, how much will you lose if the Reds win a game?

Twenty-five bucks.

Oh my…I hope your instincts are right. I don’t like gambling, John.

This isn’t gambling. Its stealing. This has nothing to do with “instincts”. This is a fact of history.

I hear you. I do. But, I don’t have your confidence…and to be honest, I’m not sure I believe you.

I understand, and I’m not really asking you to believe me. I just needed to tell somebody, I needed to speak the thing out loud and you were the only one I know…and trust.

You hardly know me. How do you know I can be trusted?

I hardly know you? Compared to what? Actually I know you better than anyone else in the world at this moment in time. How do I know I can trust you? I don’t. I can’t be sure of anything…but there’s something in your eyes that tells me that you are a good person. Even if you're not, I guess I’m desperate for a little hope and it feels worth the risk to believe the best about you. You’re the one taking the risk here, inviting me over to your house like this. If I get my memory back there’s a possibility that we both might discover that I’m a terrible person, and judging from the condition I was in when they found me I’m starting to think that might be the case.

How bad can any man be who plays the piano like you do?

John looked away, having nothing to say about the mysterious experience in the hospital chapel. Nothing he had experienced since the moment he woke up compared to the out of body sensation at the piano. The minute he saw the sad little spinet under the window he was drawn to it by some unseen force. With each step his heart seemed to slow its beating. His body felt a release, an unwinding of the tension that had taken such a fierce grip on his body. When he placed his hands on the keys he felt a brief chill, then a rush of blood flowing to his fingertips. The music that had poured out of the instrument was familiar to him, he knew the melody, he could feel old knowledge guiding his touch. He realized that his eyes were closed and his mind free of darkness. When it was over the tension returned with a vengeance, the mystery of his past even murkier. Who the hell was he and what had just happened? He suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to escape the chapel and the beguiling instrument and to never think of it again.

Carol saw his hesitation and quickly dropped the subject, replacing it with something of a diagnosis—I think that if you want to recover your memory you need to start with the things you know to be true, you are a baseball fan, you seem knowledgeable about history, and somewhere down the line you learned how to play the piano. Lean into those three things.

Ok, Doc..

John smiled at her for the first time, the shadow of a smile, Carol thought, but a smile nonetheless.

Well, Mother will be awake soon, so I better get to it.

John had lost track of time and began apologizing for overstaying no his welcome.

Nonsense! Carol smiled. I’m so glad you came.

Maybe next time I’ll buy you lunch somewhere. I mean, after game four I’ll be loaded.

That would be nice, John.

Carol watched him walk down the front steps then disappear around the corner. She closed the front door behind her and closed her eyes, collecting herself, gathering a basket full of disparate emotions. Instead of going upstairs to check on Mother, she paused at the parlor. The baby grand was alone in the corner. She walked over, sat down, closed her eyes and began playing the first haunting notes of Chopin’s Nocturne #2.

Bachelor Life

My wife left Friday morning for a working visit down to Columbia, SC to paint and decorate Kaitlin’s baby nursery. After all, her due date is T-Minus 18 days and counting, so there’s not much time left. I went back and forth on whether or not I would go with her but ultimately decided that I would just be in the way. When I called Pam Friday evening around 9:30 and asked what they were doing she said, “We’re getting ready to watch a breast-feeding video.” That’s when I knew I made the right decision. Still, it’s been weird around here the last couple of days. Just Lucy and me wandering around the house looking for something to do. While I’ve found plenty to do, Lucy’s only consistent activity is following me around the house wondering where Mom is.

The hardest part about being left to my own domestic devices is eating. I mean, I still know how to eat, its just that since our kitchen is still dysfunctional on account of our never-ending renovation, I have to decide where to go out—by myself—for dinner. This isn’t as easy as it sounds. On the one hand, I have reasoned that I should take advantage of this opportunity by picking places that Pam wouldn’t want to go, then order something that she would eye-roll me over. Friday night I chose Glory Days. I ordered a plate of nachos. It was delicious. The last four or five holes of the PGA was on the big screen. Nice. But, on the other hand, it’s kind of pathetic sitting alone at a bar.

Saturday was filled with odd jobs and taking Lucy for a walk, where she was clearly frustrated that she still couldn’t locate Mom. I placated her with extra treats and giving her a thorough brushing. Once all my yard work was done I thought I would check in with Pam to see how the nursery painting was coming along. I found them both at Target buying decorating stuff. Still no painting being done. It’s a process, I guess.

Then last night rolls around and I need a plan for dinner again. This time I chose Twin Hickory Tavern and again sat at the bar, but this time with a lovely couple in town for their grandson’s baptism. He was my age and retired two years ago. They split their time between a home in Sweden and a home in Florida. I should have had him pick up the check! For dinner I ordered a plate of three steak sliders. Also delicious. Enjoyed a fine cigar on my deck when I got home—something I would never do if Pam were home. I can hear her now—“You stink!!”

This morning the big decision is, do I go to the 9:30 service at Hope or my usual 11:15? Either way I’ll probably pound two of those free cookies. I’m starving.

Despite all the terrible meal decisions I have made since Pam left I am somehow losing weight. So I’ve decided that tonight I will make hamburgers on the grill and I will consume two of them without apology. 

I am clearly not equipped by education, training or experience for the bachelor life.

Chapter Two of John Doe

Another week passed. Each day he got stronger but no memories returned. It had become clear that he would have to be released since he was otherwise healthy and no longer required medical care. Carol responded by taking up a collection from everyone at the hospital who had cared for him and even a few who hadn’t but knew his story. On the morning he was to be released, they presented him with a donated suitcase filled with clothes and a few essential toiletries along with an envelope that contained 47 dollars. The doctor who had heard him play the piano arranged for a room in a boarding house not far from the hospital and paid his first three months rent in advance. As they rolled him to the front door in a wheelchair he held the suitcase in his lap with a blank expression. Carol smiled at him, embraced him in a warm hug then watched him walk away in the direction of the boarding house. He didn’t look back.

John walked down Main Street slowly, his head on a swivel, startled by each sound the passing cars made. He paused at each storefront, marveling at the displays. At the first stop light he came to he saw what looked like a brand new Packard One-Twenty pull up, the color of a ripe plum. In the back seat he saw a woman with a bird hat smoking a cigarette. She made eye-contact with him for a moment and nodded her head demurely in acknowledgement. Then the light changed and the driver ground the gears as he sped away.

Carol had written the address of the boarding house on a piece of paper, folded it and slid it into his shirt pocket. John removed it and glanced at the little map that she had drawn and then up at the street sign. He had another mile or so to go so he stopped at the first bench he found outside a drug store. It felt good to get off his feet. Across the street was a small park where he noticed a man playing catch with a boy. Probably father and son, he thought. He watched him until they finally walked away hand in hand, wondering to himself who his father was and whether they had ever played catch. 

He sat on the bench for over an hour watching people walk by. The women were in a hurry, almost all of them carrying shopping bags. It seemed like all the men wore hats, worn out felt fedoras with sweat marks around the bands. The cars and trucks speeding by were loud and clouds of exhaust poured out of them like a river. John felt an overwhelming confusion with everything around him. These were regular people, a regular street and regular cars and trucks, but there was nothing familiar in any of it. These were not his people, his streets. It all seemed old and new at the same time and peculiarly alien. Finally he rose from the bench and continued his walk. The suitcase felt heavier.

The boarding house was two blocks off Main Street, a white two story salt box with a full basement that smelled like mowed grass and mildew. His room had the disadvantage of being in this windowless, moldy basement but the advantage of his own private entrance. There was a bathroom he had to share with the only other tenant below ground, a loud and gruff younger man with an Irish accent.

Welcome to the dungeon, the man yelled from the doorway of his room across the stairway. My name is Oscar. Oscar Kelly.

John didn’t feel like talking with a stranger. He wanted to get settled in his room and take a nap. But then the man walked up and extended his hand. He smelled of whisky and cigarettes. John reluctantly shook his hand. Good to meet you, Oscar.

Oscar smiled broadly revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth. You got a name, friend?

John.

Last name?

Just John…

Oscar laughed. Alright then…Just John. Most of us gather in the big room upstairs around 8 ‘o’clock every evening. The old man has a radio…its a Magnavox…if you’re interested. I guess the old man told you that supper is at 6 o’clock sharp. He wasn’t kidding around. He’s strict. No drinking, no dames allowed, 11 o’clock curfew unless you’re working. If you want breakfast you better be at the table by 7 or you’ll go hungry. Food’s alright though. If he hears too much cussing around here he makes us all go to church on Sunday, so if you feel like swearing, use your whisper!

The landlord had indeed gone over the house rules in detail when John had arrived, but Oscar’s version was much more specific. When he finally left him alone John unpacked his clothes and folded them neatly in the three drawer cabinet next to the door. A framed portrait of Jesus hung crookedly on the wall over the cabinet. John straightened it. The only other furniture was a twin bed with a nightstand on one side with a Bible on top, and a small desk with a wooden chair and a very old desk lamp with a cracked yellow shade. He turned on the light and immediately turned off the single light bulb hanging by a black chord from the ceiling in the middle of the room. The light bulb was the same height as his head and the glare was blinding. He placed his empty suitcase in the small closet and laid himself out on the bed, almost instantly falling asleep. A dreamless afternoon bled into night before he woke up hungry and confused. He closed his eyes and opened them again. The basement room at the boarding house. He had slept through supper.

He stood at the sink of the bathroom throwing cold water on his face, examined himself in the mirror and recognized nothing. As he dried off his face with the communal towel he heard footsteps above his head and the dull pulse of voices. He made his way up the steep basement steps and saw a cloud of smoke coming from the living room. There were a half dozen men smoking cigarettes around the radio. Oscar saw him first, Just John! Glad you could make it. Didn’t see you at supper. You not hungry? Nobody misses a meal around here.

John entered the room without a word and found a place to sit. There was a newscast on, a man with a nasal tenor speaking gravely about events in Poland. Everyone stopped talking and leaned closer. John looked them over. Hard to tell how old they were, their faces darkened by worry. Their clothes dirty and marked by a hard life. Then he heard Oscar’s voice.

You watch what I say, that (hushed) fucking Roosevelt is gonna have us fighting them Germans by Christmas. The other men nodded in agreement. Oscar seemed to be the house mouthpiece.

No matter what a politician says, one way or another they all wind up sending boys to fight somebody else’s battles. I don’t give a flying shit about no Adolph Hitler. All I care about is finding a job.

Another man standing by the window looking out at the street whispered, Oscar, the only job you want is one where the boss let’s you drink whisky on your lunch break. All the men laughed and when John looked at Oscar he was laughing too.

Then the newscaster’s voice changed, less ominous, more playful as he announced the starting pitchers for game one of the 1939 World Series between the Yankees and the Reds coming up in two days. John felt a rush of recognition, first of the father and son in the park, then of baseball. He knew baseball in much the same way as he knew about Germany’s invasion of Poland on September 1st, 1939. He knew about the Yankees. He knew the World Series. Somehow he knew that the Yankees were about to sweep the Reds in four games. He heard the sound of his own voice asking a question of the room—Anybody here know where a man could place a wager? He had never been more sure of anything since he woke up in the hospital. It would be the Yankees in four and he needed money. Oscar spoke up.

I know a bookie who will take your money, Just John, but you don’t want to mess around with him. He runs with a rough crowd. If you want I’ll take you to him.

Just give me his address. I can find him.

Oscar smiled at John then shook his head slowly from side to side. That ain’t how it works. You’re going to need an introduction. I told you he was a tough guy. Likes to know who he’s dealing with. I’ll take you over there tomorrow.

Before he went down for the night, John opened the back door of his room that led to an unfenced backyard. There was a screen door through which drifted a pleasant breeze. He propped the door open with a shoe, latched the screen door shut and crawled into bed, weary from a day of firsts. His last thoughts before drifting off to sleep was of the old house. There was a small coat closet just off the front door. The door opened and he saw arms sliding boxes out from the closet into the hallway. Towards the back of the closet there was a loose plank in the floor. The same arms reached for it and gave it a yank. It sprang open along with two more planks on either side. He leaned over and looked down into the dark space beneath the floor’s surface and saw tightly packed one hundred dollar bills inside clear plastic boxes. The arms lifted the boxes from the hole in the floor and sat them in the hallway at his feet. The plastic box was covered in dust. The top came off with a loud click and two hands began thumbing through the bands of cash, stacking and restacking. A quarter of a million dollars. John drifted off to sleep and didn’t stir until the first light of dawn shown through the screen door. He woke up thinking of baseball and money.

This time he was on time. Breakfast consisted of burned bacon, scrambled eggs and chicory coffee strong enough to chew. John devoured the plate in front of him without speaking. There were a dozen or more men at the table, all eating quickly, heads down and mute. John saw Oscar walk in the room, the only man wearing a hat, like he was in a hurry. He made eye contact with John and tilted his head towards the front door. John took a last bite, carried his plate and cup over to the sink then followed after him.

So, you want to place that bet or not?

John placed his bet with the albino bookie Oscar introduced him to in the grubby back room of a garage outside of town on route 29. The odds were 4:1 and John laid down twenty five dollars and stood around nervously while Oscar carried on a strained conversation with the strange looking man. Sounded like he may have owed him some money but not enough to make too much of a fuss over. Still, John was anxious to leave. It had been Oscar’s idea to hitch hike on account of the fact that it was free. Oscar sent out a strong aura of being totally and properly broke.

Upon their arrival back at the boarding house the landlord cut John a disapproving look, as if he was disappointed to see him with Oscar. Then he said, There’s a package for you in your room. Lady brought it by this morning just after you left.

Who was it? John asked, trying to imagine why anyone would deliver anything to him.

She didn’t say. Just asked me to see to it that you got it. She was a nurse. She had on her uniform.

John hurried down the basement steps and saw the basket sitting outside his door, covered in a black and white checkered napkin. He smelled the buttery fragrance of bread. There, under the napkin, was a freshly baked loaf of bread and a block of cheddar cheese with a folded note…Hope you are well and that you like bread and cheese.  Fondly, Carol.

The Cool Hand Luke of Kitchen Renovations

The rumor mill has it that our kitchen renovation will be finished by Friday of this week. But I put very little stock in rumors. At this point of this interminable process I have come to the place where I wake up every morning expecting the worst possible outcome. I am rarely disappointed. 

You remember when we were kids and we would play The Telephone Game? Sure you do…its when someone whispers something in someone’s ear and then that person repeats it in the next person’s ear on down the line until the message gets to the last person and it is completely unrecognizable from what it was when it started. That’s what this kitchen renovation has been like. It’s been like a master class in horrendous communication, over-promising and under-delivering, and the worst display of reading comprehension skills I have witnessed since 5th grade. Most of the communication has been handled by Pam who has functioned as the de facto, unpaid general contractor of this project! Anyone who knows Pam knows of her precise emailing skills. When she sends you an email it usually has bullet points and very clear language. She does this because she has been married to me for 41 years and knows of my tendency to skim emails and my infamous inability to follow simple directions. But no matter how clear and precise her emails have been, nobody at this kitchen renovation company knows how to read. Things came to a head late last week and I informed Pam that I would enter the fray by calling the go-to guy and have a little discussion with him about our frustrations. You see…my wife is an angel and long suffering to a fault. Sometimes she has trouble—how shall I say this—being a badass. That’s where I usually come in. Many years ago I developed the reputation of being a bit of a hothead. I was known for my world class confrontation skills. Those skills served me well during my business career but if I’m being honest I often went a little overboard. My “confrontations” often became a bit overheated. Sometimes profanity and extreme sarcasm was involved. Occasionally recipients of these “confrontations” would end up in tears. Not my finest hour. But that was years ago. I have mellowed and matured. The profanity has largely disappeared and nobody cries anymore. Still, when the call came from the project manager while I was at the Cafe at my church, I took the call in the parking lot—just in case!

To make a long story short, I presented the laundry list of mistakes and miscues made during this renovation to the guy. My tone was serious but respectful. Then I asked a simple question—“how can you possibly be proud of the work you have done on our kitchen?” 

There’s a great scene in Cool Hand Luke where the warden of the prison says…What we have here is a failure to communicate! I was reminded of that scene when the project manager says to me—“Actually, I am proud of the work we’ve done and I think we’ve done a pretty good job of communicating with you guys!” It was like the man was living in a parallel universe. It was like a Trump voter arguing with a socialist. We were just speaking a different language. I stood there in the parking lot of my church with a decision to make. I could let loose with a blast of invective that would send this kid (he’s the son of the owner) to a psychiatrist…or…I could breathe deeply, take a second to dial back my anger and proceed. “Well, my friend,” I replied. “You and I have a vastly different threshold for pride.” And no…he probably didn’t understand that either.

At the end of the day the kitchen is beautiful, despite our abysmal customer care experience. The cabinets are lovely, the granite counter top is gorgeous. But if anyone out there is considering updating their kitchen do yourself a favor and chose somebody—anybody—but Trinity Renovations!

A Little Catholic Humor on this Friday Evening

One of the great things about having adult children is the fact that you are no longer responsible for their care and feeding. However there’s another great thing about having adult children. Every now and then one of them will send you a random text out of the blue which will give birth to much hilarity. When this happens you realize that your career as a parent wasn’t entirely a hot mess of mistakes and poor judgment…that somewhere along the line you must have done something right. Take this past Wednesday night for example. There I was watching the National’s bullpen blow yet another lead when my son Patrick sent me this…

Before I could respond he says: “This will be the first time in history we’ll be able to ask: ‘Is he a Sox Pope or a Cubs Pope?’”

To which I snapped back with: “It appears he’s been a lifelong White Sox fan. One would have thought that this fact alone would have been considered disqualifying.”

Patrick then dropped the mic on me with: “Well, we are called on by Christ to love the poor and the downtrodden.”

No comeback seemed adequate to the moment. My son had bested me in a quip-fest. This is when you can bask in pride at your parenting skills, when you realize that all those thousands of dad jokes served the noble purpose of instilling a first class sarcasm instinct in your boy.

Of course, I couldn’t just leave the conversation hanging there in that condition, mocking me. Eventually I found this…

Me: “I’m thinking we should give this new Pope a break. As a lifelong White Sox fan, hasn’t the man suffered enough?”