317. Winning

There have been times over the years when C.W. would disappear for weeks at a time. I never mentioned it to him since I enjoyed the respite and the peace at home that his departures would bring. Once last fall, though, I had begun to miss the little creep and I decided to ask him about his extended leaves. He had reappeared as a man in his early forties, looking distraught, even a bit put out, if you can imagine.

“What’s up?” I asked as he paced the room, looking around in a nervous fashion.

He looked at the ceiling and back at me. “Is that a real question or slang?”

 “Slang,” I said.

“Oh.” He thought for a moment and said. “I could make a joke about what’s up these days and what’s not.”

“Never mind,” I said. “We can do without your humor, or your joke.”

“I will save it and tell Mrs, Big Dope later,” he said.

I sat erect and pointed my finger. “Don’t you dare,” I said. “She’s going to be upset enough that you’ve come back.”

“She likes me well enough,” he said. “She would be fine if you would just give her what she needs.”

“C.W.,” I said. “Shut up.”

He ignored me and continued absentmindedly, “… a few days off … a vacation … maybe a nice cruise … some flowers.”

I relaxed. “Someday,” I said, “we are going to have a talk about your syntax.”

“My what?”

“Never mind,” I said. “Why don’t you just share with me where you’ve been.”

“Coaching high school football. The Elders got wind of your species’ obsession with it and had me give it a try—coaching it, that is.”

“But you quit. Why?”

“Lost all my star players.”

“That’s awful. How?”

“Sophomores.”

“Your star players were sophomores?”

“No. The star players were all senior boys.”

“Well, then, who were the sophomores?”

“Girls.”

“Girls?” A sliver of understanding began to pierce through the dark clouds of my mind. But then he broke in.”

“Have you ever heard of something called a ‘registered sex offender list,’ with addresses and all, that has to be made public?”

I started in disbelief. “Do you mean …?”

“Some of the most prestigious homes in that city are now on it.”

“How? What happened?”

“Seems there was this club,” he said, “among the sophomore girls.”

“A club?”

“Called the ‘Boffin’ Stud Seducers’ and all the best looking girls in the class belonged to it.”

“You are kidding me.”

“Nope. The ‘Boffin SS’ as they called themselves, required only one thing for permanent membership.”

“Sex?”

“Well of course that, but they also required undeniable proof of the act.”

“Undeniable pr …”

“An arrest record.”

“Oh wow,” I said. “Don’t tell me …”

“Complete with videos. And you know about social media, right?”

“Oh man.” My mind wrestled to digest the implications. “So you don’t coach anymore.”

“To say the least.”

“The least?”

“Take a good look at this shape,” he said. “You won’t be seeing it again.”

“But how were you implicated?”

“Simple,” he said. “Lack of supervision.”

“But how? How can you be responsible for a group of girls that start some terribly immoral and vindictive club?”

“Oh,” he said. “It’s worse than that.”

Silly me ... I always thought this was a gesture
indicating victory on the playing field. C.W. 

“How could it be?”

“Well,” he said. “It seems the senior football stars had a club of their own.”

“Oh … my … god.” I struggled to speak. “And how long had this been going on?”

“Best guess …,” he said. “Fifteen years or so.”

“And nobody did anything?”

“Boys will be boys.”

I sat back and let it all sink in. I couldn’t think of anything to say. All I could come up with was,  “And how was your win-loss record with all this?”

“Oh,” he said,” I would say it was the girls 11 and the boys zero.”

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259. Failure in Communication

“I hope I never have to explain your species to an alien.”

“What?” This took me by surprise. C.W. and I were watching Fourth of July celebrations on television, he in the shape of an American-Asian teenager and me in the shape of a senior citizen on tranquilizers.

“Your species,” he said. “The abode of god and the angels forbid that I should ever have to explain it to an alien.”

“You are an alien,” I said, “and heaven forbid anyone should have to explain anything to you.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “How would you like explaining things to someone who wasn’t from here?”

“Uh, C.W.,” I said, “I’ve been trying to explain things to you for five years or so. Don’t you remember?”

“Well,” he said, “you have failed miserably.”

I bristled. “I’ve done a fine job,” I said. “Where have I failed you?”

He thought, then turned to me. “You haven’t explained hot dog-eating contests.”

That took the wind out of my sails so to speak. My stomach rebelled and I had to stifle a series of retches. “No,” I said, “I don’t suppose I have.”

He nodded as if he were teaching a class in astro-physics. “Care to try?”

“No,” I said. “You have to understand that there are, as the Good Book says, ‘things that passeth understanding.”

“Speaking of that book,” he said, “please reconcile ‘Suffer little children to come unto me,’ and ‘Take this kid up on the mountain and kill him for me,’ if you will.”

“Are you purposefully trying to make my hair fall out?”

“Hate radio,” he said.

“Stop it,” I said.

“The preoccupation with Kate Middleton’s womb.”

“I said stop.”

“Golf.”

“Quit, please quit.”

“Tattoos.”

“I’m leaving.”

“No wait,” he said. “I need you to help me.”

“You’re making my circuits smoke,” I said in a reference to a phenomenon unique to confused Falloonians.

“Care to explain NASCAR?” he said.

“Oh please,” I said, “don’t start again.”

“Okay,” he said. “I was going to mention dog shows, but I won’t.”

“Good.”

“Or skiing.”

I didn’t respond.

“Or video games.”

I ignored him.

“Or bowling.”

I'm hoping to use this image as the cover
on my final report on your planet. - C.W.

I studied a spot of poison ivy inflammation on my hand.

“Or banjoes.”

I jumped up straight. “Now wait,” I said. Actually I screamed it this time. “Wait just a damned minute. Let me tell you a thing or two, you, …you, … you ungrateful interloper.”

“Yes?”

“Just because something lacks vast appeal doesn’t mean that, for selected members of our species, it doesn’t provide peace, tranquility, a moment of distraction from a troubled world, an appreciation of nature, or a contributing factor to human development. What do Falloonians do to relax?”

“Oh,” he said, “the best analogy I can think of is that it is a game involving the ability to solve matrix algebra problems in one’s head.”

“Sounds like a load of fun,” I said, still smarting.

At that point, he began to whistle the tune from the movie “Deliverance.”

 

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141. Madness

C.W. was very effusive and that is unusual for him. Also—it seemed at first—complimentary. But, I soon found out it was a misunderstanding.

“I am so pleased to hear your species admit to “March Madness,” he said. He was watching television on a Saturday morning and seemed unusually content in the shape young woman in the “hippie” attire of the 1960s. “Actually I think your collective madness extends throughout the year, but any admission is cool, man.”

“Collective madness?”

“Your species whacks itself out a lot man, and it’s not groovy.”

“Whacks itself out?”

“Yeah, you man … like wars and things. Bummer.”

“So you think that is what March Madness refers to?”

“Uh, yeah. Like when you all flip out at once. Far out.”

“Uh, C.W.,” I said. “Or whatever your name is …”

“Celestial Foreverness.”

“C.F., that is not exactly what ‘March Madness’ refers to.”

She snapped her head around to look at me. When her jewelry had stopped clanging, she said, “What else could it mean? Don’t be puttin’ me on, man.”

“It’s a basketball tournament.”

“A what?”

“A basketball tournament.”

“Aw man, you mean where they toss that little ball around?”

“And into the hoop.”

“Oh wow.”

“Now, are you going to the supermarket with me? If so, you’re not going like that.”

“Just a minute,” she said. “I want to watch one of those games.” She flipped through the channel until the screen light up with players bounding across the court, following a young man dribbling a ball. She leaned forward and forgot I was standing in the room.

“I’m about ready to go,” I said.

“Don’t bug me man,” she said. “This game only has five minutes left. Be cool.”

I shrugged and finished getting dressed. Fifteen minutes later, I came back into the room. She hadn’t moved. “Ready?”

“Only four minutes left,” she said. “Go do something.”

I collected the trash, took it out, and used up another fifteen minutes. “C.W.?” I yelled from the next room.

“Three minutes left,” she yelled back. “Chill out.”

There is no arguing with him when he is like that, so I sat at the table and completed the grocery list I had started. Fifteen minutes later, I checked in again.

“Two minutes and it’s over,” she said. “Hold your horses.”

I gave up. She didn’t even notice when I left. Outside, I could hear her yelling, “Miss! Miss!”

Sometime later, I returned from shopping and carried the first load of groceries into the house. To my surprise, she still sat in front of the television completely absorbed in the action.

“Another game?”

Man, the only thing wrong with
wars and basketball games is
that they both last too long. - C.W.

“No man, same one. Eight seconds left. Don’t bug me.” At that moment, a player tossed the ball onto the court. Another player caught it and immediately received a judo chop to his wrist. A whistle blew, action stopped, and the screen shifted to a commercial. C.W., or rather C.F., relaxed and looked up as if seeing me for the first time. “I see why your species digs this,” he said.

“And why is that?”

“Keeps your minds off doing anything really destructive.”