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Desire

Shadowbox Live
The Worly Building
Columbus, Ohio

By
Rick Brown

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Sex, Love, and Rock ‘n’ Roll

Shadowbox Live
The Worly Building
Columbus, Ohio

By
Rick Brown

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F#(k Cancer: The Musical

Shadowbox Live
The Worly Building
Columbus, Ohio

by
Rick Brown

Click Here for the Review

Happy Hour

by
Rick Brown

I had made plans to stop over at Mark’s place. He’s my 80-year-old … across the street neighbor on Siesta Key. We get together semi-regularly for a late afternoon beer … or two … and a discussion consisting mostly of ailment bitching … and baseball. We both love baseball. And we both have ailments.

Mark is what I’d call a loveable curmudgeon … territory I hope to be gracefully moving into myself. He lost his wife a few years back and lives with two cats he adores. When my wife Yvonne, our Maltese Freddie and I are in Ohio, Mark keeps an eye on our place. So, to return the favor… I try to drop in and check on him.

This was a prematurely hot, humid, late afternoon at the end of May. The skies were cloudy and threatening. Storms were in the forecast. Yvonne happened to be in Arizona visiting her parents. Thirsty for a beer (even Mark’s Nattie Light sounded refreshing) and some serious baseball banter … I donned my “Who’s on first” tee shirt … bid a fond ado to Freddie … and crossed the street.

Mark greeted me at his door, handed me a can of cheap beer, and poured a couple traditional shots of Fireball. This is his favorite whiskey of choice. One Christmas Yvonne and I gave him a fifth of Maker’s Mark, thinking he’d both enjoy a quality spirit and embrace it as his namesake. Instead … he not only gave it away … but seemed to savor telling us about it. Still … I suppose one could argue that Fireball is the perfect poison to be chased by a Natural Light.

Both being a bit lubed by our Fireball boilermakers, we spent the next 20 minutes discussing our aches and pains … doctors … nurses … the cats’ aches and pains … life … philosophy … death … then back to aches and pains. Seemingly exhausting this subject Mark asked about Yvonne.

“How’s the wife?” is how he put it. I assumed this to be contextually accurate given our generational differences.

“She’s visiting her Mom and Dad in Phoenix until day after tomorrow.” I replied.

I then changed the subject to baseball. Mark is a die-hard Red Sox fan, having spent his childhood in the Boston area. And of course, I’ve followed the Cleveland Indians for longer than I like to admit.

“You know, I used to be a Cleveland fan too in the 1950s.” Mark informed me. “Red Sox AND Indians!”

“But no longer?” I inquired.

Mark suddenly got a tad agitated and snapped “NO! … I still like ‘em but I can’t watch the home games.”

This made me curious.

“How come?”

“I have hyperacusis … certain sounds are really LOUD to me and that guy in the bleachers beating that GODDAMNED DRUM drives me NUTS! Absolutely NUTS!”
     “Oh.” was all I could muster. And apparently, we had NOT run the gambit of our ailments earlier.

“Why the HELL does he BEAT on the GODDAMNED DRUM the whole game?”

I tried to explain the tradition to him …. that he was a big fan … he was there every home game for decades now … all for naught. And to be honest … the more I talked … the dumber a guy beating on a goddamned drum during a baseball game began seeming to me too.

“Don’t the people in the STANDS … who paid good money to see a baseball game … complain about that GODDAMNED DRUM?!!”

Accentuating Mark’s exuberance for this observation was a tremendous clap of thunder outside. And when a brilliant flash of lightning precluded yet more rumbling … we both fell silent.

“I guess I better head home before the deluge.” I said. “Freddie will be freaked out, especially with Yvonne being gone.”

Mark nodded his head in agreement … fist bumped me … and softly replied, “Thanks for stopping by. I enjoy your company.”

I shook Mark’s hand and added, “Always a pleasure my friend. I’ll be over again before we head north to Ohio.”

He looked me in the eye and wistfully responded, “How about tomorrow?”