Women have finally said, “No More!” They’ve revolted. Legions of liberated feminists have abandoned kitchens across the land. Men are starving and Alka-Seltzer sales are soaring.
Husbands arrive, exhausted and ravenous. “Honey, I’m home…what’s for dinner?” Commanding voices answer, “Whatever you’re fixing…girls’ night out.” From the TV room mournful lamentations groan, “What about me?” Silence. Men know…it’s takeout again.
Women are tired of cooking, guys. Get a grip. It’s not fair, but factual. They’re sick of asking, “Whatta you want for dinner?” always hearing the same soppy response, “Whatever you want, Sweetie!” Women have murdered for less. So, kitchens and refrigerators are now as empty as men’s bellies…the famine has finally arrived!
Why? Men ask such stupid questions. Simple. Women have spent their finest hours in kitchens, shackled like slaves in sweltering sweatshops. Kitchens are where men breeze in, eat and exit…“Thanks, Hon, real good…gotta go now.” Women sit alone at the table, smoldering, staring at the disaster left for them to clean up. They wonder, “Is it worth it?”
Face it. Men weren’t cut out for kitchens. Take cooking, for example. Can men read recipes longer than three words? No. They throw whatever’s handy into the mix, boil or fry it. Result? More Pepto! Neither can men locate things in the pantry…they stare right at it, and yell, “Honey, we’re out of mayo.” Women know what “we” means!
A man’s kitchen is his grill, an unsightly outside fire pit. It’s a blackened steel drum, rusted and coated with fat and offal from fires past. Disgusting. The Health Department would declare it a bacillus-breeding contagion. It’s an altar where hapless creatures become backyard-sacrifices to the cookout gods, their charred carcasses befouling the neighborhood with toxic smoke.
My wife left me to fend for myself once. She later asked what I’d done for dinner. “Why, what men have done from time immemorial…I lit a fire, tossed a slab of red meat on it and opened a Bud.” She recoiled in horror, “No salad?” Women have strange ideas of balanced meals. Men know meat and beer are nutritionally perfect! Clean up’s easy.
Men make good use of nature when cooking. As boys they’d cut down whole trees for fires. Big fires were good. They’d trim a few branches and whittle the ends sharp. They’d spear wieners or marshmallows, and often one another. Then they’d torch them like brilliant flambeaus, and eat ‘em. Boys can go in the strength of that food forty days and forty nights!
Clean-up duty…another reason women have left the kitchen. I never minded cleaning up, really. Except things never really got clean. My wife would inspect the job, which often resulted in a re-wash. Cleanliness is a relative term…men and women interpret it differently. As a child I learned my definition on a creek bank.
Open flames will cook about anything, especially fried. Things like fish, potatoes, bacon and eggs were tasty staples. Grease was the operative ingredient then. Hot grease is like gas…it mixes great with fire! Boys love fires. With mud from the creek bank we’d wipe the pans ‘clean,’ dip ‘em in the creek and viola, ready for the next meal. Somehow we survived. Young boys are indestructible…they can drink Drano for breakfast!
You wanna see a woman really explode? Let a man collate her cookware into his idea of an orderly arrangement. Washing cats is safer! All that men require is one gigantic walk-in closet where everything can be tossed. Perfect order…they’d always know where things were and where they belonged. Men invented chaos.
Want more reasons? Try table place settings. For men, forks, spoons and knives would be grouped for convenience, not convention, depending on whether they were right or left-handed. Logical? Right! And place mats? Oh, don’t bother. Stacks of table clutter abound… newspapers, coupon inserts and magazines. They work fine. And napkins? Who needs ‘em…paper towels are cheap.
There’s more. Try ‘fear of dishwasher.’ Nothing good can come from men learning to operate such equipment. And don’t even mention cleaning kitchen counters. Germs? No worry…outta sight, outta mind! The list goes on and on.
And so do men’s appetites. Except things are different now. The Kitchen Insurrection has gained traction…she’s out, we’re in. What about us men? Must we watch Paula, Rachel or Emeril on TV? No way!
Not me. I’ve posted a “Cook Wanted” ad at a local diner. But until one shows up, I’m taking matters into my own hands. I’m in control of the kitchen now, and guys, grease is makin’ a comeback!
Bud Hearn
May 27, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Thursday, May 20, 2010
The Family Vacation
“This is no longer a vacation. It's a quest, a quest for fun. I'm gonna have fun and your gonna have fun.” Clark Griswold
Perhaps no greater affliction has been visited upon Americans than the torment of a family vacation. It’s now that time of year... let the torture begin.
Remember when the family would make its annual pilgrimage to the coast, or the mountains, or, God forbid, Disney World to relax and celebrate family intimacy and harmony. What, you’ve tried to forget that nightmare? You’re not alone.
Face it, leaving home is hard. For weeks men toiled late into the night preparing for the journey, praying some unforeseen catastrophe would occur to cancel the agony. “But honey, I can’t afford to be gone a week,” was the lament, falling on deaf ears. “Do you want a divorce? I’m not putting up with these children another minute,” she’d retort.
So, the deposit was sent, the trip scheduled. On the day of departure, I was always late. Why? I had to get in that last-minute gym time. Then, I’d forgotten to mow the grass, which was already a foot high. It’d be two feet high in a week, so it had to be done. Now nearly dark, we packed the car, jammed bags into every nook and strapped bikes to the trunk like vagrants. It’s advisable to arrive at posh resorts after dark…hopefully nobody would remember you came, like migrant hicks, in an old station wagon.
Finally we’d leave, head for a slot on the interstate. Us and a million other fools. In what seemed an eternity, but was actually two miles, loud voices pierced the car, “How much longer? We’re hungry.” After hours of this anguish, Ronald McD appeared in the darkness. “Drive thru,” they screamed. The line stretched into the next county. Hours later, we’d ingested enough transfat to grease a semi. Which, coincidentally, we happened to be stuck behind for another five hours.
Lamentations from the back seat wailed, “Are we there yet? I need to use the bathroom.” Meanwhile, the car careened with its load through the desolate interstate darkness to the vacation nirvana pictured in the slick brochure. Disappointment came later…pictures sometimes lie!
My brother and I would pool our money, sharing a small cottage in a formerly swanky island development. Small was not wise! Hoards of children ran wild all hours of the day. Naps? Forget it. Exhaustion ran rampant. As the week came to a close, we’d count up our money. Surprised at our frugality, we had some left. So for the last 2 days we lived it up, mainly on beer and burgers.
It was not like this when we were children. Ronald was still in California and cars were few. The highlight of the trip to our beach house was crossing a very tall wooden, one-lane suspension bridge designed by lunatics. It was held together by rusty baling wire and was a frightening sight. It hung 200-feet above the Chattahoochee and lurched precipitously in the wind. It provided fear and relief. As it swayed, we’d look down at the muddy water, contemplating the “what if’s” of fate. Bathrooms? Forget it. But you’d soon need one.
Vacations were cheap then. No rides, no toys, just the beach and whatever else our minds could figure out to do. We had fun and always hated to go home. Our vacation paradise was a no-AC two bedroom, one bath cinder block house that cost daddy $7,500 of hard-earned money. It slept an army of kids. Mama spent her vacation in the kitchen, for which we’re still indebted! Daddy fished and drank beer. Exhausted, we were asleep by dark.
Now back to us. The agony soon ended for our family. It was time to go home. Good thing, too, since nerves were frayed and conversation was harsh. Packed, the Gypsies left, returning to work, tall grass and summer camps. No one spoke. There was no money left for food and stopping was out of the question. “Hold it, and go back to sleep,” we’d say.
Such are the rituals of family vacations. Somehow we survive, better for having had a respite from the ordinary. Home never looked so good. Sitting around the table the next day, we promised we’d never endure such trauma again. But we knew otherwise. For such are traditions…without them from where else would the stories come?
Yes, it’s that time of year. Get ready for the influx … the Griswold’s Family Vacation entourage will soon arrive! Enjoy.
Bud Hearn
May 20, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
The High School Reunion
“Some things look better, baby, just passing through…” Elton John
High School…a prison with a mandatory four year sentence, no parole, for the reformation of teenagers in preparation for future class reunions. It’s merely an endurance of passing through and passing on.
It’s that time of year when previous Glee Club members plot a reunion of the former inmates. The result is a synod of strangers, societal misfits, abnormal personalities, tortured body shapes, bad hair, no hair and dysfunctional weirdoes. And for kicks throw in a couple of sociopaths. The law of unintended consequences gone wild! If you like nursing homes, this is the place for you on a Saturday night. It’s a Gothic sideshow in the actualities of life.
Dante attended his 50th reunion. Historians say it’s where he got the description of hell. To re-enforce his resolution to forever refrain from such a farce, he wrote, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” Translated, if you intend to attend a reunion, Don’t!
Darwin studied reunions. He postulated they were also evolutionary, his thesis being man’s transition from Ape to Neanderthal to Homo sapiens. Interesting. Since reunions are generally held every 5 years, the first 20 are tough for most. They’re too busy evolving, not imagining what they’ll look like at their 50th reunion.
We still go. This year Charles is planning our 50th. I think his judgment’s flawed, since it’s being held at noon, in broad daylight. Brazen. Most reunions are held at night, and for good reasons. Not the least of which would be coiffures, cosmetics, cleanliness and conceits. Many things are best observed in darkness. Age bestows such wisdom.
The usual venues are school gyms, church cafeterias, motels or Masonic Temples. All small towns have these. Colquitt qualifies. This year the Moose Lodge was conflicted out due to an extended booking of the Bikers for Bisexuality Bash from nearby Climax, Georgia. Would I make this up?
The Baptist Church’s cafeteria was the first choice. But the deacons vetoed the request, citing the propensity of the attendees to indulge in unclean bottled spirits and past reports of the unsupervised laying on of hands later in the evening, especially in the parking lot.
The local motel, a retro 1950’s motor court, was happy to accommodate overnight guests, having recognized many local names on the list as regulars. It’s run by a nice Indian couple who knows all of the town’s secrets, but keeps them quiet. Unless they need a loan from the bank, or some favor from a merchant. Some say they have interesting photos. Just gossip.
So at noon this June the 1960 class of Miller County High School will assemble at Moby Dick’s, the local landlubber’s seafood restaurant. Their specialty is fried, fried and more fried. Tooth picks and Pepto Bismal are available at no charge. BYOB is suggested as a medicinal, in case the catch du jour has exceeded its expiration date.
The reunion begins with a meet-and-greet session. It’ll be short. Noon is feeding time for Neanderthals.
Then there’s the “entertainment program” to eat up the clock. I suggested door prizes be given for the most artificial body parts, but it was summarily rejected. Then I suggested costumes, since nobody would know anybody anyway. Botox, cosmetics and transfat have seen to that. Still under consideration.
It’s advisable to carry a yearbook for identification. Recently I ran into a lady who looked vaguely familiar. Come to find out she’d graduated from MCHS in 1960, too. I asked her if she’d been in my class. She replied, “Which class did you teach?” Women are vicious!
The best thing about class reunions are the old memories. Time has embellished and burnished them to a radiant shine. Forget reality, they get better with age. Nature’s cruelty to faces notwithstanding, we do have a common history, albeit only 4 years of our lives. We were important then in our own strange ways. Still are.
But like dispersed vagabonds we return to the indignity of the reunion. We celebrate, embrace and laugh at the spectacle, thinking, My God, they’re old. Or whew, what if I’d married that one? Then we leave, back to our own world. Perhaps melancholy, but glad that we passed through and passed on.
So, if you must attend your class reunion, remember: Men, park your pride and baseball cap at the door. And ladies, Mary Kay sells cosmetics…don’t leave home without them!
Bud Hearn
May 13, 2010
High School…a prison with a mandatory four year sentence, no parole, for the reformation of teenagers in preparation for future class reunions. It’s merely an endurance of passing through and passing on.
It’s that time of year when previous Glee Club members plot a reunion of the former inmates. The result is a synod of strangers, societal misfits, abnormal personalities, tortured body shapes, bad hair, no hair and dysfunctional weirdoes. And for kicks throw in a couple of sociopaths. The law of unintended consequences gone wild! If you like nursing homes, this is the place for you on a Saturday night. It’s a Gothic sideshow in the actualities of life.
Dante attended his 50th reunion. Historians say it’s where he got the description of hell. To re-enforce his resolution to forever refrain from such a farce, he wrote, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” Translated, if you intend to attend a reunion, Don’t!
Darwin studied reunions. He postulated they were also evolutionary, his thesis being man’s transition from Ape to Neanderthal to Homo sapiens. Interesting. Since reunions are generally held every 5 years, the first 20 are tough for most. They’re too busy evolving, not imagining what they’ll look like at their 50th reunion.
We still go. This year Charles is planning our 50th. I think his judgment’s flawed, since it’s being held at noon, in broad daylight. Brazen. Most reunions are held at night, and for good reasons. Not the least of which would be coiffures, cosmetics, cleanliness and conceits. Many things are best observed in darkness. Age bestows such wisdom.
The usual venues are school gyms, church cafeterias, motels or Masonic Temples. All small towns have these. Colquitt qualifies. This year the Moose Lodge was conflicted out due to an extended booking of the Bikers for Bisexuality Bash from nearby Climax, Georgia. Would I make this up?
The Baptist Church’s cafeteria was the first choice. But the deacons vetoed the request, citing the propensity of the attendees to indulge in unclean bottled spirits and past reports of the unsupervised laying on of hands later in the evening, especially in the parking lot.
The local motel, a retro 1950’s motor court, was happy to accommodate overnight guests, having recognized many local names on the list as regulars. It’s run by a nice Indian couple who knows all of the town’s secrets, but keeps them quiet. Unless they need a loan from the bank, or some favor from a merchant. Some say they have interesting photos. Just gossip.
So at noon this June the 1960 class of Miller County High School will assemble at Moby Dick’s, the local landlubber’s seafood restaurant. Their specialty is fried, fried and more fried. Tooth picks and Pepto Bismal are available at no charge. BYOB is suggested as a medicinal, in case the catch du jour has exceeded its expiration date.
The reunion begins with a meet-and-greet session. It’ll be short. Noon is feeding time for Neanderthals.
Then there’s the “entertainment program” to eat up the clock. I suggested door prizes be given for the most artificial body parts, but it was summarily rejected. Then I suggested costumes, since nobody would know anybody anyway. Botox, cosmetics and transfat have seen to that. Still under consideration.
It’s advisable to carry a yearbook for identification. Recently I ran into a lady who looked vaguely familiar. Come to find out she’d graduated from MCHS in 1960, too. I asked her if she’d been in my class. She replied, “Which class did you teach?” Women are vicious!
The best thing about class reunions are the old memories. Time has embellished and burnished them to a radiant shine. Forget reality, they get better with age. Nature’s cruelty to faces notwithstanding, we do have a common history, albeit only 4 years of our lives. We were important then in our own strange ways. Still are.
But like dispersed vagabonds we return to the indignity of the reunion. We celebrate, embrace and laugh at the spectacle, thinking, My God, they’re old. Or whew, what if I’d married that one? Then we leave, back to our own world. Perhaps melancholy, but glad that we passed through and passed on.
So, if you must attend your class reunion, remember: Men, park your pride and baseball cap at the door. And ladies, Mary Kay sells cosmetics…don’t leave home without them!
Bud Hearn
May 13, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Mama Said....
“Mama said there’ll be days like these, there’ll be days like these my mama said…” The Sherilles
My mama talked in idiomatic riddles. She’d use them to confuse, chastise and discipline my younger brother and me. Life was confusing enough without adding to it. I internalized many of them, but understood few. Young boys have a strange learning curve.
I once had a friend, Jack, who went broke. I say “once” because he has now moved to an ethereal address. In order not to repeat his mistakes, he compiled a list of do’s and don’ts, memorized them and taped them to his desk. It was sorta like his Ten Commandments. Always wondered if adultery was on his list.
I didn’t need reminders. My mama had drummed wisdom into my head by different means. Suffering was the principal one! I list some of the contexts here in hopes they will help you get by.
Our home had one bathroom. The lid was always up. Once, in the dead of night, a blood-chilling scream pierced the house’s silence. Mama had fallen in, if you know what I mean. Next thing I know she had me by the throat, “I’ve told you till I’m blue in the face about that lid,” shouting hysterically. “I’m fit to be tied.” My brother escaped the beating, feigning a bout of bubonic plague.
The back screen door was warped. I was bad about not closing it. Flies and gnats would ease in, laying eggs and contaminating things. “Fed up,” she said, “Son, a word to the wise…you’re skatin’ on thin ice.” Well, wise was not yet in my vocabulary, and in August where was the ice? Didn’t make sense.
My brother and I once climbed atop the convertible and fell through it. We instantly understood the mystery about thin ice. “Boys, I’m about to whip you within an inch of your lives.” We understood whip, like in beat, but not the inch part. Maybe the last half breath, but an inch? We understood better about inches when daddy got home and pulled off his belt….size 34.
Young boys learn good habits slowly. My mama was fond of saying, “Son, I’m giving you fair warning…I’m going to lay down the law to you.” Mama’s idea of fairness didn’t jibe with mine. It was less a warning than a threat. She seemed to know that a stout stick would drive the foolishness out of young boys. That was her law!
In today’s world Family and Children’s Services would have incarcerated my parents for parental abuse. In those days, had it been possible, my mama would have voluntarily called the Sheriff and had us relocated with a foster family. The phone system was handled by Polly, the operator. The whole town would have known about the child exploitation before nightfall. Her thorn remained.
Another conundrum I faced was mama’s comments about daddy. “Your father’s working his fingers to the bone.” I would examine his fingers when he came home, but I never saw a finger bone. It always troubled me. She’d add, “Boys, you should be ashamed of yourselves.” Guilt and shame were atrophied emotions in boys…but pain and suffering? That’s another matter!
Often we’d “get up on the wrong side of the bed.” We could never figure how she knew the difference. Same was true of her favorite, “Son, you’re getting too big for your britches.” How? I hadn’t gained a pound in years.
We learned early bad things happen “when we bit off more than we could chew.” Especially when she added, “Just wait till your father gets home.” The meaning of repentance became clear, “as plain as the nose on your face,” mama would say.
“Once in a blue moon” I’d be accused of “cutting my nose off to spite my face,” usually for silly nonsense. My nose did “get out of joint,” but I never once attempted surgery. Homework always prompted, “It’s plain as the nose on your face,” while whispering to daddy, “That boy’s in over his head.”
She had many more, like, “having a heart to heart talk,” or, “get off your high horse” and “for the life of me.” Mostly she only listens now, having changed addresses herself about 6 years ago. She’d be proud that her wisdom lives on.
So, “if you know what’s good for you,” remember Sunday’s Mother’s Day. Make your mama proud. They’ll be happy to see us all again!
Bud Hearn
May 6, 2010
My mama talked in idiomatic riddles. She’d use them to confuse, chastise and discipline my younger brother and me. Life was confusing enough without adding to it. I internalized many of them, but understood few. Young boys have a strange learning curve.
I once had a friend, Jack, who went broke. I say “once” because he has now moved to an ethereal address. In order not to repeat his mistakes, he compiled a list of do’s and don’ts, memorized them and taped them to his desk. It was sorta like his Ten Commandments. Always wondered if adultery was on his list.
I didn’t need reminders. My mama had drummed wisdom into my head by different means. Suffering was the principal one! I list some of the contexts here in hopes they will help you get by.
Our home had one bathroom. The lid was always up. Once, in the dead of night, a blood-chilling scream pierced the house’s silence. Mama had fallen in, if you know what I mean. Next thing I know she had me by the throat, “I’ve told you till I’m blue in the face about that lid,” shouting hysterically. “I’m fit to be tied.” My brother escaped the beating, feigning a bout of bubonic plague.
The back screen door was warped. I was bad about not closing it. Flies and gnats would ease in, laying eggs and contaminating things. “Fed up,” she said, “Son, a word to the wise…you’re skatin’ on thin ice.” Well, wise was not yet in my vocabulary, and in August where was the ice? Didn’t make sense.
My brother and I once climbed atop the convertible and fell through it. We instantly understood the mystery about thin ice. “Boys, I’m about to whip you within an inch of your lives.” We understood whip, like in beat, but not the inch part. Maybe the last half breath, but an inch? We understood better about inches when daddy got home and pulled off his belt….size 34.
Young boys learn good habits slowly. My mama was fond of saying, “Son, I’m giving you fair warning…I’m going to lay down the law to you.” Mama’s idea of fairness didn’t jibe with mine. It was less a warning than a threat. She seemed to know that a stout stick would drive the foolishness out of young boys. That was her law!
In today’s world Family and Children’s Services would have incarcerated my parents for parental abuse. In those days, had it been possible, my mama would have voluntarily called the Sheriff and had us relocated with a foster family. The phone system was handled by Polly, the operator. The whole town would have known about the child exploitation before nightfall. Her thorn remained.
Another conundrum I faced was mama’s comments about daddy. “Your father’s working his fingers to the bone.” I would examine his fingers when he came home, but I never saw a finger bone. It always troubled me. She’d add, “Boys, you should be ashamed of yourselves.” Guilt and shame were atrophied emotions in boys…but pain and suffering? That’s another matter!
Often we’d “get up on the wrong side of the bed.” We could never figure how she knew the difference. Same was true of her favorite, “Son, you’re getting too big for your britches.” How? I hadn’t gained a pound in years.
We learned early bad things happen “when we bit off more than we could chew.” Especially when she added, “Just wait till your father gets home.” The meaning of repentance became clear, “as plain as the nose on your face,” mama would say.
“Once in a blue moon” I’d be accused of “cutting my nose off to spite my face,” usually for silly nonsense. My nose did “get out of joint,” but I never once attempted surgery. Homework always prompted, “It’s plain as the nose on your face,” while whispering to daddy, “That boy’s in over his head.”
She had many more, like, “having a heart to heart talk,” or, “get off your high horse” and “for the life of me.” Mostly she only listens now, having changed addresses herself about 6 years ago. She’d be proud that her wisdom lives on.
So, “if you know what’s good for you,” remember Sunday’s Mother’s Day. Make your mama proud. They’ll be happy to see us all again!
Bud Hearn
May 6, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
A Game of Marbles
The roulette wheel spun like a carnival ride, reflecting the flashing neon lights of the Beau Rivage Casino. A black marble whirled in its opposite peripheral circuit, soon to separate the winners from the losers. Harlan was there.
A crowd encircled the table. Casino chips lay scattered on green felt among the colors of red and black, and the numerical potentials for joy or heartbreak. The wheel slowed and the marble bounced wildly among the colored and numbered slots in this wheel of fortune or forfeiture. Animated bodies and shrill voices pleaded for the black marble’s favor for this color, or that number. The marble stopped, falling into a red slot numbered 22.
Cheers and groans mingled incomprehensively. The ambient air was electric. The croupier’s long rake retrieved the losing chips, paid the winning ones. Space at the table opened, and Harlan stepped in. Finally, he thought, another game of marbles, this time for real.
“Place your bets,” barked the croupier. Chips were wagered while Harlan stood fingering the bulge of chips in his pocket. They represented his entire savings from years of work. “You in, sir?” the pit boss asked. “Bet down, or move back.”
“I’m in,” Harlan answered. After all, it was only a game of chance, like life, he rationalized. He pulled the chips from his pocket and placed them all on 4 red, a 35-to-1 bet. And prayed.
The croupier spun the roulette wheel, sending the black marble into its circuit. The crowd was transfixed. Shocked at having bet it all on one spin, Harlan’s mind swirled with the wheel. He remembered the game of marbles in the sand lots of his youth.
That was a long time ago now. They gathered after school, best friends, risking their marbles to gain someone else’s, but knowing it worked both ways. Always a winner and a loser. Shooting marbles was simple. A circle in the sand, the bet of five marbles each, and pitching to a line to set the shooting order.
Harlan’s favorite marbles were the cat eyes, clear polished glass with an interior resembling a cat’s eye. He had kept one for luck. Bill’s favorites were the steam rollers, the jumbos that lacked finesse, just brute strength. He seldom won.
Tubby was the serious shooter and played for keeps. His black “shooter” had a mean backspin. He always scored, winning more marbles than he lost. If he were hot, he could empty the circle before anyone else got a shot…made for a bad day! Terry, Jimmy and Harlan were average shooters, mostly playing for fun.
Harlan’s gaze returned to the spinning wheel, the black marble bouncing in wild gyrations. Anxiety mixed with fear permeated the crowd. The roulette noose tightened. Harlan stiffened, squeezing his talisman. Oh, the power a black ball holds on one’s future, he thought.
Why was he here? Because he’d made the paper’s foreclosure section for a month. Come Tuesday someone else might own his farm. Options were limited. The bank’s loan windows were closed, the farm didn’t sell and his cash was all but exhausted. The chips on the table represented what was left---his last hope.
Harlan thought about his old marble-shooting pals. One dead, one an evangelist, one a pharmacist, one a chef and himself, a farmer. He wondered how things had played out for them. His eyes returned to the spinning wheel. In its reflection he saw his future.
The wheel slowed, the black marble bounced savagely, a consequence looming. Harlan studied the faces at the table, faces like his own. Faces that fate had dealt with in its own way. He wondered why they were here, what was their story?
Suddenly it was over. The wheel slowed. The black marble had made its choice. Anguish filled some faces, elation shown in others. A few left the table, others doubled down. Fresh money filled the vacancies for this game of marbles.
In games of chance there were always winners and losers. Harlan yielded his place and wandered through the casino. He saw the wretched sitting with vacuous faces at the slots, the calculating blackjack strategists, the disguised poker gurus. A circus of desperation and addiction, he concluded.
Harlan wondered about the future. Things wouldn’t be the same after tonight, that’s for sure. Neither would a game of marbles. He wondered if boys still played marbles in small-town sand lots. If so, would they realize its meaning or where it could lead? Now he knew.
Outside, he stood in the fresh air at the water’s edge of the Biloxi Gulf Coast. How would he reconcile tonight? Simple…just another game of marbles where there were winners and losers. And tomorrow? It’ll take care of itself, he thought.
Saying goodbye to the past, Harlan flung his cat-eye talisman into the indifferent surf. Laughing to himself, he moved on.
A crowd encircled the table. Casino chips lay scattered on green felt among the colors of red and black, and the numerical potentials for joy or heartbreak. The wheel slowed and the marble bounced wildly among the colored and numbered slots in this wheel of fortune or forfeiture. Animated bodies and shrill voices pleaded for the black marble’s favor for this color, or that number. The marble stopped, falling into a red slot numbered 22.
Cheers and groans mingled incomprehensively. The ambient air was electric. The croupier’s long rake retrieved the losing chips, paid the winning ones. Space at the table opened, and Harlan stepped in. Finally, he thought, another game of marbles, this time for real.
“Place your bets,” barked the croupier. Chips were wagered while Harlan stood fingering the bulge of chips in his pocket. They represented his entire savings from years of work. “You in, sir?” the pit boss asked. “Bet down, or move back.”
“I’m in,” Harlan answered. After all, it was only a game of chance, like life, he rationalized. He pulled the chips from his pocket and placed them all on 4 red, a 35-to-1 bet. And prayed.
The croupier spun the roulette wheel, sending the black marble into its circuit. The crowd was transfixed. Shocked at having bet it all on one spin, Harlan’s mind swirled with the wheel. He remembered the game of marbles in the sand lots of his youth.
That was a long time ago now. They gathered after school, best friends, risking their marbles to gain someone else’s, but knowing it worked both ways. Always a winner and a loser. Shooting marbles was simple. A circle in the sand, the bet of five marbles each, and pitching to a line to set the shooting order.
Harlan’s favorite marbles were the cat eyes, clear polished glass with an interior resembling a cat’s eye. He had kept one for luck. Bill’s favorites were the steam rollers, the jumbos that lacked finesse, just brute strength. He seldom won.
Tubby was the serious shooter and played for keeps. His black “shooter” had a mean backspin. He always scored, winning more marbles than he lost. If he were hot, he could empty the circle before anyone else got a shot…made for a bad day! Terry, Jimmy and Harlan were average shooters, mostly playing for fun.
Harlan’s gaze returned to the spinning wheel, the black marble bouncing in wild gyrations. Anxiety mixed with fear permeated the crowd. The roulette noose tightened. Harlan stiffened, squeezing his talisman. Oh, the power a black ball holds on one’s future, he thought.
Why was he here? Because he’d made the paper’s foreclosure section for a month. Come Tuesday someone else might own his farm. Options were limited. The bank’s loan windows were closed, the farm didn’t sell and his cash was all but exhausted. The chips on the table represented what was left---his last hope.
Harlan thought about his old marble-shooting pals. One dead, one an evangelist, one a pharmacist, one a chef and himself, a farmer. He wondered how things had played out for them. His eyes returned to the spinning wheel. In its reflection he saw his future.
The wheel slowed, the black marble bounced savagely, a consequence looming. Harlan studied the faces at the table, faces like his own. Faces that fate had dealt with in its own way. He wondered why they were here, what was their story?
Suddenly it was over. The wheel slowed. The black marble had made its choice. Anguish filled some faces, elation shown in others. A few left the table, others doubled down. Fresh money filled the vacancies for this game of marbles.
In games of chance there were always winners and losers. Harlan yielded his place and wandered through the casino. He saw the wretched sitting with vacuous faces at the slots, the calculating blackjack strategists, the disguised poker gurus. A circus of desperation and addiction, he concluded.
Harlan wondered about the future. Things wouldn’t be the same after tonight, that’s for sure. Neither would a game of marbles. He wondered if boys still played marbles in small-town sand lots. If so, would they realize its meaning or where it could lead? Now he knew.
Outside, he stood in the fresh air at the water’s edge of the Biloxi Gulf Coast. How would he reconcile tonight? Simple…just another game of marbles where there were winners and losers. And tomorrow? It’ll take care of itself, he thought.
Saying goodbye to the past, Harlan flung his cat-eye talisman into the indifferent surf. Laughing to himself, he moved on.
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