Just a Day
At lunch, Thor and Falstaff reconfigure the defense. I just want my fork back.
"Dandenault moves back to wing so we can keep Hatcher and Woolley and bench Rivers."
See, Right of Center took my fork then the waitress took her plate with my fork still on it.
"That gets us through the playoffs," says Falstaff. "But next year gets interesting--"
"There's not going to be a next year," I say. I steal Thor's fork, he's not using it.
They both glare at me.
"Don't say it--"
"There's not--"
"Don't--"
"--Going to be a next year. You may as well get used to it."
There's a moment of disapproving silence and Right of Center rolls her eyes at us.
"There's going to be a lockout, teams are going to fold, and there's going to be a salary cap," I prophesy. Blood, death, destruction I should have said.
Falstaff looks like he's going to cry. "No hockey . . . "
* * *
I've got the radio turned up as I speed down I-75. I'm going to be late for class. The sky is blue and clear. I come up the Rouge bridge, over the alien landscape of Zug Island. I crest the top of the bridge and I see the Renaissance Center, the Penobscott Building, the Ambassador bridge in the distance. "I made up my mind," David Coverdalewails. "I ain't wastin' no more time."
I turn the radio all the way up and sing along as loud as I can.
* * *
I am, in fact, late to class. I'm also courting a parking ticket, but that's not important. I creep in and settle into the closest seat to the door, and the boy in the clever t-shirts flashes me the valiant smile of the recently shot down but no-hard-feelings holding. It's a good discussion today, but I'm too distracted to participate much. The girl to my left asks how my paper is coming.
"I'm in the overdue-library-books stage of things right now," I say, and cringe at how much I have left to do.
Seven hundred years ago, the church I love canonised a greyhound. Last night, a nun told me that I didn't have to forgive someone until I was ready to, and that I didn't have to forget that they had hurt me in the first place. The boy with the clever t-shirts walks quickly past me and out the door. The little Right of Center in my head laughs and says "Lunch didn't work but I'm free for dinner!"
It's too many disparate parts of my life colliding at once, and I need to sit down and write this out before I leave.
* * *
I don't have a parking ticket when I get back to my car, but the meter is flashing red and angry.
Stopped at a light, a clot of girls outside Cass Tech play slug bug. The one in a pink puffy jacket appears to win.
The radio plays a song that reminds me of twelfth grade, and I think of Thor and Falstaff and how long we've all known each other. I think of This Guy in high school, and it makes my head spin a little. I wonder what I'll do when he calls to apologize, or if he will.
I change the station to NPR.
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
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