Talkin’ to the Kid

It’s early Sunday morning. The kid and I sit at the table, drugged. We look at one another with blank stares. Him, anesthetized by sleep; me, still stoned from barbiturates. I wait for Mr. Coffee’s jolt. He waits for his thumbs and iphone to warm up. Nobody talks.

But I’m thinking it’s a good time to discuss important things with the kid. After all, he’s 13 now. Yes, it’s time he hears about how messy life really is, to shake him up from his age of innocence, to prepare him for the real world. You know, things like financial messes, wars, rumors of war, starvations, mutilations. Chaos reigns.

I say, “Kid, life’s messy.” He jerks. “Huh?” he says. I repeat the premise. He searches his iphone for a clue, an app to define ‘messy.’ “Listen to me. Life’s full of problems, just look at your father.” He answers, “He’s dumb. I’d rather play baseball.” He’s quick, I’ll give him that.

“Look, kid,” I say. “Life’s not about baseball. Life’s a big mess of problems. Baseball’s just a fun escape.” He thinks about it, appears unconvinced.

“What’s a mess?” he asks. I tell him his room is, for starters. Then I tell him a mess is like a baseball without the cover. “It’s a mass of thread wound around a rubber cork,” I say. He shrugs. “Oh,” he says. “I know about baseballs. I’m a natural-born hitter.”

He continues. “How do you spot messes?” he asks.

I search for an academic answer. “There’s a thesis called ‘The Rule of Thumb.’ It’s like common sense,” I say. “Like a baseball field…it gets messy, needs mowing, raking.”

“What’s a thesis?” he asks.

Aghhhh. “It’s like, well, it’s just kinda like a conclusion you come to in certain situations,” I say. He gives me a ‘what-kind-of-answer-is-that’ look. I tell him it’s easy to understand, especially if you happen to have dogs. Which we do. Two, in fact. I tell him we refer to it as ‘the rule of dung.’

“What’s dung?” he asks. Where’s this kid been, I wonder.

I offer up a crude analogy. “Listen,” I say. “See the back yard? It’s full of grass. But it’s really a mine field of dog poop. If you walk out there barefooted, you’ll soon understand the ‘rule of dung.’ It’ll ooze between your toes. It has to be cleaned up. It’s a mess. Get it?” He consults his umbilical appendage.

He tells me baseball’s a mess, too. How so, I ask. He tells me that it’s complicated, says it’s all about strategy. I agree, saying “Yes, life’s complicated, too.”

My mindless monologue of real-world issues meanders along its tortuous trail.

“What’s your favorite subject in school?” I ask. “Spanish," he replies. Can of worms opens, they crawl out. “Now, there’s a real mess. Illegal immigrants,” I say. I ask him how he’d solve that mess if he were President. His thumbs work the iphone. “Forget it kid. The President has no clue either.” He looks relieved.

I change subjects. Clearly the kid has no interest beyond his own solar system. Baseball is its sun. “Do you have a girlfriend?” I ask. He looks sick at the thought.

“Girls are a mess,” he says. “I’d rather play baseball.” I give it some thought. The kid may be on to something.

“Look, kid, girls are kinda like baseballs. They’re hard at the core and wound real tight. But they’re fun to play with, unless they’re losing the game.” He slings me a vacuous fast-ball look. Metaphors are like moon rocks to kids…foreign objects.

I remember the kid playing on the beach last summer, building sand forts from crap that clutters the beaches. He was happy then. Now he’s a teenager. He’s happy now. He has a best friend in his iphone. Why am I spoiling everything with these real-life issues?

The more I talked, the less he listened. Who can blame him? Who wants to spoil a day with messy conundrums?

I give up and leave him to his innocence and cook some eggs. He promises to get a scholarship in baseball at Dawg U. Maybe that’s good enough for a Sunday morning tete-a-tete with the kid.

Besides, I have my own mess to deal with….the septic tank needs pumping. O, for a day of baseball instead!

Bud Hearn
March 8, 2012