Boxeo

By Ted Kane

"How was my flight?" Art Olszynski repeated to his wife Carol, buckling his safety belt, "Jesus. One change of planes is bad enough, but two? And who's brilliant idea was it, in the dead of fucking winter, to route one of the flights through St. Louis? Christ. Like you aren't trying you luck flying into Hopkins in the first fuckin' place. You gotta push it, flying into St. Fucking Louis. So, yeah. Shitty. It was fuckin' shitty. Four hours of delays, sitting on the god-dam plane."

"I'm sorry, dear," Carol calmly replied

"Ah, what're you gonna do. Thanks for still getting me. I don't even think the RTA still runs this late."

"It was nothing."

"Sales. What a god-dam racket. I'll tell you what, after three weeks in San Jose, I'm happy to be back in civilization. Beautiful Cleveland, Ohio. I can't wait to see those Cavs games. You were right, baby, buying that TiVo was the best idea you ever had."

"Better than getting married? I didn't know you were that excited about TV."

"Aw, come on now. (chuckles) Besides that. You know what I mean."

Exchanging a smile with her husband, Carol Steele Olszynski turns onto route 76 and heads for home.

-----

"What the fuck is this? Boxeo?"

Carol looks up from the couch, sees that Art is going through the menu of saved programs on the DVR. "I think it's the Spanish word for boxing, dear."

"Yeah, no shit. I know what the word means. What I'm asking, why is there five shows of 'boxeo' on our TiVo? I didn't ask it to tape that crap."

"Well, TiVo sometimes records things based on your viewing habits. Didn't you get a fight last month on pay per view?"

"Yeah, I got the Mayweather fight, but not in Mexican. But, OK; what about this Liga Futbol? I don't even watch the stupid Columbus Crew, why would I give a rat's ass about Guadalajara and something called Chivas?"

"No idea, Art."

"All this crap. Ah, Cavs at Detroit. That's more like it. I'll delete all this other nonsense later."

"I think you can set the DVR so it doesn't automatically record things. I'll fool around with it while you are at the office tomorrow."

Art cracks open a beer and the game begins.

-----

"Off to San Antone, baby. Back in a week." Art kisses his wife on the cheek.

"I don't know how you can stand it."

"I don't know how YOU can stand it, Carol. At least I have my job to keep me busy. What do you do all day while I'm gone?"

"Oh, I manage. You going to see the Alamo?"

"Yeah. Maybe I'll piss on it, too."

"Oh, Art, you're terrible."

-----

Boy, Carol will sure be surprised to see me, he thought, sitting in the back of the taxi on his way home from the airport. I can't believe I closed the deal so quickly; it was like I wasn't even selling, they were just buying and buying. It was incredible. Sure, the weather was nicer, but it's always good to get home a couple days early.

"This exit, driver. Take a left, then a right."

Reaching his street, Art notices a car parked in his driveway. Not his, though, but familiar. Who the fuck do I know owns a white Chevy truck with the cab on it? Oh, the gardener. Jose something. He must be mowing the--Art looks at the piles of slush on the side of the road and the inch of snow on the February Cleveland lawns.

"Pull over, bud, I think I'm going to be sick."