tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-327399242024-03-05T07:35:44.437-08:00I Can't Believe You Took Me SeriouslyGet a copy of Charles Freericks' book <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1506103189?keywords=my%20imaginary%20friend%20was%20too%20cool%20to%20hang%20out%20with%20me&qid=1454733087&ref_=sr_1_1&s=books&sr=1-1"><i>My Imaginary Friend Was Too Cool to Hang Out With Me</i></a>. Charles Freerickshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862131316705936957noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32739924.post-1205650590277163492024-02-13T16:17:00.000-08:002024-02-13T16:17:33.012-08:00Rod Carew's 3000th Hit<p> <span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><img alt="Day in sports: MLB legend Rod Carew records his 3,000th hit - Los Angeles Times" aria-hidden="false" class="sFlh5c pT0Scc iPVvYb" jsaction="VQAsE" jsname="kn3ccd" src="https://ca-times.brightspotcdn.com/dims4/default/143e631/2147483647/strip/true/crop/2555x1641+33+344/resize/1200x771!/quality/75/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fcalifornia-times-brightspot.s3.amazonaws.com%2F77%2Fce%2F887cee9848438e6ca2267b4066f6%2Fl4-twins-angels-base-58566.sff" style="height: 504px; margin: 0px; max-width: 1200px; width: 784px;" /></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The other day, I<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>m at my dentist<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>s office, same dentist I’ve been going to since 1988, and he’s showing me an X-ray of my mouth. He points out three crowns. <span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>I have two crowns,” I tell him. <span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>You have three,” he says, counting them out like I’m five, “One, two, three.” He even checks my chart, which because of the length of our relationship is as fat as the erstwhile GTE Yellow Pages. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>Yep, I put three crowns in,” he says. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I can remember my first appointment with him in 1988, back when we both looked like extras from <i>Pretty in Pink</i>. But I don<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>t remember him numbing me up, drilling into my tooth, and fitting it with what would be my third crown.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Memory is very important to me... and he’s pointing to a memory cavity in my brain. I can<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>t even recall having a problem with that tooth, which apparently, I<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>ve been brushing and flossing now for a decade since thinking it was me, when it was a really a crown. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I’m in a panic about not being able to remember getting a crown.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Which makes me think about the All-Star baseball first-baseman Rod Carew.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Not that Rod Carew had crowns… he might have... I have zero information on that, but Rod Carew got a 3,000<sup>th</sup> hit, which helped elevate him to being one of the best players in the history of baseball. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">And I can<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>t remember if I saw it. And that’s an even bigger cavity in my brain that no amount of Anbesol is going to relieve.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It’s been bothering me longer than forgetting about the crown. Did I actually see Rod Carew get his 3000<sup>th</sup> hit? I can’t remember. And that means I’ve already lost a piece of me. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Let me tell you a secret. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I fear death. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I know… pretty uncommon. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">But one of the reasons I fear death is that at the moment that my life ends my memories will be erased, like a catastrophic hard drive failure or the Alexandria Library burning to the ground. And Rod Carew<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>s 3000<sup>th</sup> hit may have been on that hard drive, and it may be starting to fail.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">You may not remember Rod Carew<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>s 3000<sup>th</sup> hit. I<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>m guessing that<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>s not all that disturbing to you. But for me, not remembering is an emergency claxon that tragedy is coming. Honestly, it seems like something I should remember…<o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">like losing my virginity… <o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">or getting my first credit card.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Going to games back in those days was always a last-minute decision… predicated on if my friends and I had recovered from our hangovers. We drove along muggy, hazy, white-light, blinding tangles of freeway to long lines of cars at the stadium entrance. We bought the cheapest seats, had a breakfast/lunch/dinner of beer and dogs and more beer and more dogs, and constructed new hangovers.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I remember knowing that Rod Carew<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>s 3000<sup>th</sup> hit would be a history-making moment that I could say I had witnessed. I thought I would be a more interesting person if I saw it. My grandfather saw Charles Lindbergh land in Paris. He was there, among the cheering Parisians, a college dropout who had recently sailed from New York, and just happened to be there when it happened. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">That was pretty interesting. This was going to be my Lindbergh landing to tell my grandchildren about. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">At the time when Rod Carew played for the Angels, I worked for KCBS-TV Channel 2 scheduling commercials, and one thing I do actually remember is looking out from my seat into the stadium, at fifty thousand fans, and thinking, <span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>I decide what commercials you see and when you see them.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">But the memory stops there, like when the film breaks in the projector and you hear <span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>flap, flap, flap, flap,” as the reel spins fecklessly.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I mention to my friend Malcom that I’m losing my memory and that I don’t know if I saw Rod Carew gets his 3000<sup>th</sup> hit. Malcom went to a couple baseball games with me back in the day. He says, “If you saw Rod Carew<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>s 3000<sup>th</sup> hit, I promise that you would remember it.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>Maybe I just wanted to see it.” I tell him, <span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>Maybe that<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>s what I<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>m remembering. There were so many things I wanted to do that I didn<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>t do. I wanted to live in Paris for two years. I wanted to live in Boston and write for <i>The Atlantic</i>. I wanted to buy a house, not just a house, but that big colonial in Pacific Palisades above PCH and Entrada. I wanted to hang out with girls, but they never wanted to hang out with me. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>You mean the one that fell onto PCH during the Northridge Earthquake?” he asks. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>Yeah. That was some house,” I respond.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>You<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>re being mawkish” he says.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>I failed to do anything I wanted to do in my 20s. If I just saw Carew’s 3000<sup>th</sup> hit, that would have been one success…,” I say.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>If you<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>d seen Carew<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>s 3,000<sup>th</sup> hit, you<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>d remember it,” he assures me. <span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>Anyone would remember that.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">And so I let it go…<o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Until I find an Angels ticket stub from 1986 among some old papers. I type the date and Angels into Google, and… <o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It was not the game when Carew got his 3,000th. But that leads to search some more and find that it was in 1985. I had convinced myself it was 1986 because I remember the thing about scheduling everyone<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>s commercials and all the power that gave me, and I had that job in 1986. But it turns out that the hit was in 1985 and the thing about 1985 is… I kept a journal that year.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It was once the most important thing to me, a place to record all of my memories so that I never lost them. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I dig out the journal and pages drop from the failing binding. I gather them and I read about my life in 1985. There<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>s a girl in a black dress who dances with me all night at the Improv, and there are two girls from grad school who show up at my apartment, on my birthday, when I<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>m sick in bed. They bring a cake with my name on it. And there<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>s a girl at work, not KCBS, but the job before that, at the Robinson<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>s in Santa Monica, who looks up at me timidly and whispers into my cheek that I can have a girlfriend if I want. I forgot these things.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Finally, I find the entry… August 4, when I wrote, <span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>I convinced Malcom to go to the Angel game with me. We drove down the 101 to the 5 and hit a terrible traffic jam before getting to the Big A in Anaheim. We had to stand in line and the only tickets left were in centerfield. It was John Candelaria<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>s first start as an Angel and he gave up five runs to the Minnesota Twins, but the Angels scored six. Rod Carew got his 3,000<sup>th</sup> hit and the entire stadium erupted. He hit it with Rich Dauer on second. They gave Carew the first base bag and the ball. Then the right field stands started screaming <span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>Tastes Great,” and the left field stands screamed back, <span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>Less Filling,” like a giant Miller Lite commercial.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">And suddenly, I am able to fill one of my brain cavities. I am able to reconstruct a picture, be it hazy and low contrast. I can remember the hot seats in the monolith of concrete up above centerfield. I can remember the view of the Angels on the diamond. I can remember Malcom holding a beer. It<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>s not much, but I have these images back… they’re mine again. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">And Malcom is with me in them. I call to tell him that not only did I see Rod Carew<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span> get his </span><span dir="LTR"></span><span dir="LTR"></span><span dir="LTR"></span><span dir="LTR"></span>3000<sup>th</sup> hit, but he saw it too. He laughs. He has absolutely zero memory of it, isn’t even sure he’s ever been to the Big A in Anaheim.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I didn<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>t ever live in Paris, but I did go there twice in the 80s and have been back since. I didn<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>t ever live in Boston, but I went there many times. And I didn<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>t buy the house in Pacific Palisades, but if I had, I might have been in it when it fell onto PCH. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">And I did see Rod Carew<span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>’</span>s 3,000<sup>th</sup> hit, which is something I can tell my grandchildren… if I remember.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="Body" style="border: medium; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Charles Freerickshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862131316705936957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32739924.post-28606471470901130742022-03-30T22:19:00.014-07:002022-03-31T17:26:59.374-07:00The Cashier at Emil's Foodtown<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnh-xPqyXOWHFsPqTAkhQVk5T4mXwq62MiJroRBGLFKNoOsIYYmEXx6nfO4eAkGCX_DjlrOW5jQZDgS0M-UXMkq1JyBBwjaVV28LB2A8VHSN57T5TeBxskFsKQTm51tE6ogP6NCqlNTpa_hWSI3ZTAtYIOHQZJ4iNSrNmd3MpTKN6TmYnwag/s511/558618_25988_1312262859304_1612645745_730835_4356766_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="390" data-original-width="511" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnh-xPqyXOWHFsPqTAkhQVk5T4mXwq62MiJroRBGLFKNoOsIYYmEXx6nfO4eAkGCX_DjlrOW5jQZDgS0M-UXMkq1JyBBwjaVV28LB2A8VHSN57T5TeBxskFsKQTm51tE6ogP6NCqlNTpa_hWSI3ZTAtYIOHQZJ4iNSrNmd3MpTKN6TmYnwag/s320/558618_25988_1312262859304_1612645745_730835_4356766_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />I knew her. We’d laughed in Ninth-Grade photography class. She’d always had a smile and would say hello. Once she said I was an excellent photographer. We'd stood close to each other in the darkroom over the vinegar-smell of the stop bath. We'd stood close to each other and watched the photographic paper develop into greys and blacks and shapes of images. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">But my crush crushed our friendship. Two years had gone by since I’d said a word to her or her to me. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I’d seen her. One year earlier I’d joined the yearbook so I could photograph the gymnastics and capture her on film. She saw me in the gym at the meet. She saw me shooting her… recording her on two precious frames of Tri-X Pan. Film was expensive.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">She didn’t acknowledge me. I didn’t acknowledge her. My crush was overwhelming and muting. My crush Crazy-Glued my lips and dropped a Peterbilt truck on my stomach with the tires spinning at 60-miles-an-hour.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The photos came out lousy and I quit the yearbook.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I wasn’t the only boy with a crush on her. I couldn’t decide if this made me jealous or proud. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Twelve months later I was at the Emil’s Foodtown buying the things on a list my mother had given me. I had no idea my crush was working there, but there she was, the cashier wearing a crisp white lab-coat that said Emil’s Foodtown and held her name tag over the breast. No other Emil’s uniform was as white and starched as hers. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what I would do if she said, “Hello.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">But we knew each other. People who know each other say, “Hello.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">She looked at me blankly. I looked at her blankly, meaninglessly, emptily. I looked down for fear she would think I was looking at her. I put my groceries on the counter and peeked up as she picked them up, one by one, the bananas, the American cheese, the Burry’s Fudge Town cookies. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Why was I buying cookies that came with a puppet prize in the box?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">She was silent. I was silent. The store was silent. The mass of my crush was silent.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">She rang each item on the mechanical cash register, printing out prices, making a loud cash-register racket, over and over and over, until she punched in the cost of the cookies.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I felt love and desire’s skeletal fingers grasp and then crush my viscera.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">She put the Burry’s Fudge Town cookies in the paper bag already full of the other items. It was the kind of bag we all used as book covers.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">She breathed in… realizing I wasn’t going to say anything… or maybe just breathing in.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I paid. I took the receipt and my change, letting her hand fall into mine for a moment, really a fraction of a moment, maybe not even a fraction, less… yes… less… the culmination of two years of a long-distance, local, hometown relationship.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I pocketed the receipt and the money. I didn’t say a word.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">She didn’t say a word.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We knew each other.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">She was my dream.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">She turned away. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I still remember this, forty-five years later. I still remember needing to exit the store, needing to escape the overwhelming littleness of my life not happening.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I still remember my joy in now knowing where she worked. I could go back and the next time I could talk to her. It was like getting my bank passbook back after depositing a check and staring at the new balance. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I was rich. I owned vital information. She worked at Emil’s. She worked near my house. She wore a crisp white lab coat. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The next time I went there I would come with courage. The next time I went there I would change the course of my life.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I never did go back to Emil’s Foodtown… not once… not ever.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Charles Freerickshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862131316705936957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32739924.post-16428563687145846752016-12-17T13:58:00.002-08:002022-03-31T17:33:07.402-07:00All of My Life at 55-Years Old Turned into a Metaphor of this Morning's Bike Ride<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCoegW0Wa1zaLDdJAWurEBmd0X_vSpj4YPu-p7KZvN5Fh-Jq1UIaptPxyhIfMe8_LYJu5uccqNlWRZRYq1qZ0sM3QdNfLuY3BRzNMfaccFu8IachAXuhQs9aDOAZi40MRfXpV9/s1600/IMG_9292.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="139" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCoegW0Wa1zaLDdJAWurEBmd0X_vSpj4YPu-p7KZvN5Fh-Jq1UIaptPxyhIfMe8_LYJu5uccqNlWRZRYq1qZ0sM3QdNfLuY3BRzNMfaccFu8IachAXuhQs9aDOAZi40MRfXpV9/s640/IMG_9292.JPG" width="640" /></a>It was supposed to be this morning’s bike ride actually, but
I didn’t get started until a little after noon. My goal was a 30-mile round
trip. I was ready to go but the tires were low and so I lost some time finding
the air pump and getting the tires back to where they had been when I last left
the bike under the house. I put on my helmet and it didn’t fit. I thought, “could I have gained that much in two weeks since my last ride that the straps
on my helmet won’t click closed? I pressed hard and forced them together and
got them to click despite how tight they felt.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
At first the ride went well. It was colder than I thought
and the road wasn’t as smooth, but I hit the big hill a block from us and got
up to 20 MPH. I was sailing. Two red lights cut into my time and forced me to
get started again, but I was feeling good. Okay, that’s a lie, I was feeling
anxious because I really just wanted to be sitting at the computer, not setting
on a 30-mile round trip with my own muscles as my only form of propulsion. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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When I got to the bike path my plans to turn right were
immediately thwarted. There was an American flag there and it was blowing
towards the right, which meant headwinds coming back if I stuck with my intent
and went right. I went left and immediately determined in my head how far 15
miles out would be to give myself an end point. Within a half a mile I started
to hit piles of beach sand on the bike path. I plowed through three of them with
the third one being deeper than I had gauged and nearly taking me down.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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I stopped for a second and looked down the rest of the bike
path. People were walking their bikes through piles of beach sand as far as the
eye could see. I didn’t even really ponder my options, I just turned back up
the slight hill to the side street that parallels the bike path and began
riding down that. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My helmet felt uncomfortable. I had to lose weight.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I found myself gliding again, not peddling at all and yet
going nearly my fastest speed yet. I was getting there faster, but with the
final destination actually being home, in the other direction, it also occurred
to me that I was setting myself up for an unexpected hill to climb on the way back,
when I would be more tired, and less able.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The street flattened out and filled with potholes and even
with the buildings there was filled with its own piles of beach sand. I skirted
these obstacles as best I could, plowing through most of the sand and only
having two piles be deep enough to stop the bike underneath me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Miles later, I reached the turn where I could rejoin the
bikepath and make my 15 miles out, but some switch in my head clicked and I
simply went straight instead, continuing down the road despite my knowing that
it dead ends in about 2 miles, cutting my best possible trip down from 30 to
12. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Twelve miles seemed like a good enough number, a number I
could be proud of, a number that most people in the world were not going to
bicycle that day, some ever. There was nothing to sneeze about at 12 miles, and
so I kept going through more potholes and more piles of sand. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When I reached the dead end I hit the deepest pile of sand
yet and almost went over the handlebars. But I didn’t. I caught myself and I
got the bike through and I stopped and looked around and it was beautiful, with
a body of water and boats scudding here and there. It was not a place I ever
intended to go but it was not a bad place to wind up in the middle of my trip.
I was proud of myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I caught my breath and turned back around. The ride home was
mostly smoother. I think my muscles, while tired, had also stretched out and
were prepared for the road ahead. Sure there were obstacles, slow moving cars,
an old lady with her dogs on leashes stretched across the narrow road, a bunch
of teens walking in a pack leaving no room to pass, the potholes, the piles of
sand, but I made it through them all. Just as I reached the hill I knew I’d
have to climb, another pack of kids walked by the other way. One of them yelled
at me, “Your helmet is on backwards.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked at him to scoff, but he was already gone. “Idiot,”
I muttered. I’d ridden a good 9 of my 12 miles. I knew what I was doing. What
business does some snot-nosed hipster have telling me my helmet is on
backwards?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Just in case, I reached up and touched my helmet. It was on
backwards.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I stopped and put it on correctly. The straps snapped
together with ease. I hadn’t gained weight since my last ride. At least not
that much weight. But now I was 9 miles into a 12-mile trip and only had 3
miles to go with my helmet on properly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I rode those miles back ignoring that I had done it wrong up
until then. Proud that I was doing it right now. I reached my home, 12 miles
from my first peddle and put my bike away, having not accomplished the 30 miles
I started out to accomplish, but having put a hard 12 miles under my belt.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Except it wasn’t 12 miles. I’ve been lying to you. I actually only did about 10 miles total (maybe a tad less). But that
didn’t sound as good as 12. And that's who I am.</div>
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Charles Freerickshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862131316705936957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32739924.post-67627670312819546382016-02-05T14:35:00.003-08:002016-02-05T14:35:47.790-08:00Michael Kennedy, Sonny Bono, and Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTkg_U7dGSvj0jo5QyD61Z3SL5KyCSqy2GUvhFo0lp6fZpPBoOzRCE2H0J_-sXC2kiYlIWqrozVuf79DOo23OhcGYfV1iNcpFKENNXS8gAsY0pVZBBUlvchz92oRSHnzTEnckK/s1600/4593.1449204507.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTkg_U7dGSvj0jo5QyD61Z3SL5KyCSqy2GUvhFo0lp6fZpPBoOzRCE2H0J_-sXC2kiYlIWqrozVuf79DOo23OhcGYfV1iNcpFKENNXS8gAsY0pVZBBUlvchz92oRSHnzTEnckK/s320/4593.1449204507.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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“Pizza, pizza, pizza… pizza to stop” I thought and tried,
but I wasn’t stopping. I kept going faster and faster down the slope while snow
slapped like frozen cotton balls into my face and a large tree came closer and
closer and the premature deaths of Michael Kennedy and Sonny Bono within a week
of each other flashed through my head.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I probably shouldn’t have tried skiing… I’m not athletic and
racing down a snow-covered mountain at 80 miles per hour requires a certain
level of physical ability. Besides, if I was going to try skiing I should have
done it when I was younger and didn’t have a family… along with me… on the top
of a snow blanketed Rocky. But there I was, 42, six foot three, 225 pounds,
more likely to cause an avalanche then perform a downhill, wrapped in wicking
underwear, two layers of sweaters, ski pants and a ten-pound ski parka. I had
the full mobility of Hannibal Lector strapped to a hand truck. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oddly, I wasn’t scared. Okay, I was pretty scared.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I probably shouldn’t have tried skiing but at the time I was
making good money and skiing is one of those expensive things that people who
make good money do. Luckily I’m no
longer doing that well and am much less inclined to do it again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, having never skied before I was aware that this could
be the only time I ever did. I decided I would do it right and that meant
Colorado. That way when friends talked about their ski vacations I could join
in and not be some kind of Big-Bear Bunny-Run failure. I’d be able say, “I’ve
skied Colorado,” carrying the gravitas of Bogart’s “We’ll always have Paris,” which
was so much more romantic than “We’ll always have San Bernardino.” And right
now, standing here, I can say that I’ve skied Colorado and leave it at that. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unfortunately, that’s not all there is. It never is. There
were winds and deep snow and steep mountains and frigid air and trees. There
were trees.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were scheduled to fly out early on the morning of
December 26. The night before, after a long Jewish Christmas, we cleaned up the
house, threw away the wrappings and boxes, and dragged the tree out to our
front yard where it would be picked up by a tree service. When you’re doing
well you pay for weird things like having your old Christmas tree picked up by
a service.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My wife lit some candles on our ersatz fireplace mantle. My
daughter read to herself from a picture book and my son played with a brand new
hand-held video game arcade he’d been given. I lay awake in bed the way one does when one
knows he is waking early, marking away the passing of each hour by convincing
myself that I’d be fine with four decent hours of sleep, that I’d be fine with
a solid three hours of sleep, that I’d be fine with a power two hours of sleep.
Luckily I was still awake when it was
time to leave for LAX.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I booked us into a hotel in downtown Denver. I figured we’d
spend a day on the slopes and the rest exploring a great American city that
none of us had ever seen before. Denver’s the capital of Colorado and we could
see the capitol dome from our hotel room. As I was looking at the dome my wife
asked me, “Did you blow out the candles on the mantle?” I had no memory of
doing so and neither did she. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While we had cell phones, this was in the days of the flip
phone when you didn’t have an entire Rolodex on your phone like you do now. In
fact you still knew what a Rolodex was. A panicked call to information followed
with an even more panicked message being left on our landlord’s answering
machine. About thirty minutes later, our landlord called to say she was in our
living room and the candles had not only been blown out, but also had apparently
been put away too. She wanted to know why we’d left our Christmas tree in the
front yard. “We went skiing,” my wife explained.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“In Colorado,” I added.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next morning we had Denver omelets for breakfast; when
in Rome right? I looked at my two cherubs and imagined that they would shine on
the slopes having inherited some previously undiscovered athletic ability from
my wife’s side. As we went to our room to get our stuff for the day, my son
tripped over my daughter’s foot and smashed his one-day old hand-held video
arcade into the wall, shattering it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Did I break it?” he asked. “I’m not sure,” I lied, wanting
him to believe he owned it for more than a day. I hid it in my suitcase with a
plan to buy an exact replacement when were back in LA, a plan that never came
to fruition.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Soon we set out to explore Denver. My Santa-Monica-raised
children had never experienced sub-freezing weather, let alone the single-
digit day Denver was having. They began to sob, causing us to buy additional
gloves, scarves and knitted hats to get us back to the hotel, where we watched
Nickelodeon, ate snacks, and looked through the window at the capitol dome.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One day I would still like to see Denver.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next morning we got up at five to have breakfast, put
together our ski outfits, and get to the railroad station. We had reservations
on the seven AM ski train to Winter Park. It was colder and darker than the day
before and the wind felt like an ice-covered sledgehammer. Still, bundled in
our ski clothes, it wasn’t that bad.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The train however was heated to what felt like 100 degrees
and we had to peel and peel and peel. I got down to jeans and long underwear
just not to collapse. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the sun rose the train began our trek. Industrial Denver
rushed by the windows only to turn into the slope of the Rockies. We climbed
above the city. We were cocooned in the train’s dizzying heat as winds and
flurries danced over the barren ground around us. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My son danced too so I asked if he needed the bathroom. He
looked at me like this was the most brilliant suggestion anyone had ever made ever
and nodded furiously. I pointed it out to him and watched him head down the
aisle. I realized he had never used a bathroom on a train before, which had me
a bit nervous, but I figured, he’s a smart kid, he’ll figure it out. He came
back much calmer and happier. He explained that it was hard to pee in the toilet
with the train rocking.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went off to the bathroom myself only to discover the floor
soaked with my child’s urine, sloshing to perfect rhythm with the song of the
steels wheels on the steel rails. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We neared Moffatt Tunnel, which we were told is the longest
railroad tunnel in North America, spanning the Continental Divide. The
conductor announced that vestibules had to be sealed to keep the train from
filling with diesel exhaust. I was starting to question the whole idea of a
Colorado ski trip when the assistant conductor came on the PA and told everyone
that we had to have all our ski clothes on and all of our personal property
packed because the moment we came out of the tunnel we would detrain very rapidly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It seems that the train had to stop on the mainline and
there were monster coal trains waiting to get through so we were only allowed a
few moments. Okay, I can do this, I thought, dressing my son while my wife
dressed my daughter. We were all bundled, Jews in bubble wrap, ready to go,
when the conductor came back and said, “Ladies and Gentleman, put the long
underwear on if you have it. It’s ten degrees with a wind-chill factor of
negative five.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was ten degrees out with wind chill factor of negative
five and there was a colossal coal train waiting to use the tracks so we all had
to scamper like vermin facing a can of Raid?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The words that ran through my brain at that moment were,
“I’ve killed my family.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Somehow we detrained, got into the lodge, rented skis, put on
the skis, and found our way to the ski teacher. “This is going to be a good
story to tell,” my wife said. Little did she realize that was the only reason I
was doing it. “Yeah, I’ve skied Colorado. How’s the rock shrimp and endive
salad?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The ski teacher was an Australian Olympian (at least he
seemed like one). I’m sure Jim Lampley interviewed him once on <i>Wide World of Sports</i>. He had zero body
fat, a Crocodile Dundee accent, and the kind of charisma that only a
good-looking foreigner in an expensive ski parka can have. I felt very
important and wealthy having an Australian ski teacher.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He took us to something called the magic carpet, which was
basically a moving walkway like you see at the airport, only shorter, running
up a very gentle hill. Think of a front lawn in New Jersey, in a nice
neighborhood with hills, add some snow and the moving walkway from the airport
and you get the idea of where we were most of our ski day. I flew my family to
Colorado to ski on a hill that I could probably have pushed a stalled Cadillac
up… by myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The four of us rode the magic carpet up the gentle hill
while our wallaby shusser skied up. As a kraken-sized coal train trundled below
us, we were taught that you point your skis like French fries to go and like
pizza to stop. He taught us how to get up from a fall with skis on, which I
felt was sort of like the driving teacher teaching you how to install a new
airbag after a crash.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Over the next hour or so each of us skied five feet here,
seven feet there, monumental runs that thrilled us and had us all dehydrated
and desperate for cup after cup of the icy cold water from a cooler perched
near the top of the magic carpet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s amazing how willing one is to move in sub-zero weather
and with the equivalent of a couple steel-belted truck tires’ worth of clothing
around them for a cup of water. I cross country skied my way back to the magic
carpet, carefully placing each ski on it with all the agility of a moose… that
was wearing skis. Once on top, I sucked a cup of water down the way one does in
the desert and then made my next run down the mountain, which was more like the
slope of a dog’s back… not when it’s sitting, but when it’s standing on all
four legs. French fry was effective. Pizza on the other hand, not so much.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Soon my five-year old was done for the day and my wife took
her into the ski lodge while my seven-year old, our astonishingly patient and
kind Aussie ski instructor, and I shared a ski-lift seat up the mountain to
take what we learned and perform a downhill run. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Did I mention this was in the days before smart phones?
Because I think of all the times in my life that I didn’t have a camera,
besides the first time I got naked with a girlfriend, there are few others I
regret not having at camera with me anything like riding up the ski lift in
Winter Park, Colorado, over the pure-white slope with thousands of
hundred-foot-tall pine trees all around us, each holding foot-high layers of snowy
powder upon each and every branch, extending as far as I could see. It was one of the most beautiful things I’d
ever seen, ranking just below, once again, the first time I ever got naked with
a girlfriend.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I turned to my Vegemite-loving teacher and asked him if this
was a smart thing for us to do. He assured me that we were just taking the easy
hill. Besides, I was doing well and
would be okay going down the mountain myself. He added that this was why people
came to Colorado. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was doing well. I had a sudden boost of confidence, very
similar to the time I got an “A” in Geometry despite having had no idea
whatsoever what the teacher had been talking about all semester.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the ski lift reached its zenith our instructor told us
how to jump off and come up standing. I fell on my face. But he reminded me how
to get up with skis on and I got up and brushed myself off and I followed him
to the course. Meanwhile, on what seemed a couple miles lower than us another
coal train decimated everything in its path, while on what seemed a couples
miles higher than us, skiers raced down an absolute vertical, shussing through
the trees like they were negative magnets and the trees were positives.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, with a flick of the poles, my son and our instructor
began the run. I followed, trying to go as slowly as I possibly could, but it
was really just a few seconds before I was out of control. I crashed into a
pile of snow to stop. I took a deep breath and discovered that standing with
skis on wasn’t quite as simple without instruction. I looked down the run and
saw the kangaroo man and my son gently French frying and pizza-ing while faster
skiers passed them. I was happy to have given my son a Rocky Mountain high.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I took a deep breath and tried again. I was going well… too
well… I was up to what I estimate to be 80 miles an hour within five seconds,
which is pretty good when you consider a Porsche needs about seven seconds to
reach that speed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was the easy hill.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I passed my son and our ski instructor. I’d like to say I
saw a look of concern on their faces, but I’m going to be honest, I was passing
at too high a rate of speed for light to catch up with me, so I probably was
looking at what their faces had been seconds earlier.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Pizza, pizza, pizza… pizza to stop” I thought and tried,
but I wasn’t stopping. I kept going faster and faster down the slope while snow
slapped like frozen cotton balls into my face and a large tree came closer and
closer and the premature deaths of Michael Kennedy and Sonny Bono within a week
of each other flashed through my head.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hit the side of the tree, hard enough that it hurt, but
not hard enough to break anything. I fell into a mound of snow and rocks and
twigs however that did hurt. I lay there for a bit, delighted beyond delight to
no longer be moving. Man being stationary felt great. But I also realized I was
only about a quarter of the way down. My son and the teacher pizzad perfectly
to where I was. He told me once again how to get up with skis on and all three
of us made our way back to the run.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The only additional instruction I heard was, “lean back.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By this point snow had gotten into my son’s boot and he
began to wail in pain. Our instructor was now left with the job of getting both
of us off the mountain. He warmed my son’s foot with his bare hand, which
stopped the crying. Then he picked my son up, skis and all, and put him on his
back. He skied gently and slowly right by my side, speaking Australian, as a
leaned back and pizzad the entire way down. All I could think was, “it’s so
cold, I’m so thirsty, there’s so much more mountain left.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we finally reached the bottom I knew that this man had
saved both my and my son’s lives (all right I’m being a bit of a drama queen,
but seriously, if not for him, we’d both still be on that mountain trying to
figure out how we were getting down). I reached into my wallet and pulled out a
few bills. They weren’t ones or fives. I tipped him a happy-ending level
gratuity, not that I have any idea what a happy ending tip should be, but
rather… honestly, I’m just guessing here.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As we found my wife and daughter and all shared hot
chocolate, as one does when one skies in Colorado, I felt good… and not just because
I’d taken my ski boots off, which is possibly the greatest non-erotic orgasm known
to man. I was proud of myself. I had skied… not just that, but I had skied
Colorado. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
And now, I could say that and would never have to do it
again.<o:p></o:p></div>
Charles Freerickshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862131316705936957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32739924.post-87568031027855219052014-11-19T13:14:00.001-08:002014-11-19T18:59:23.899-08:00The Roof Was Torn Away<div class="MsoNormal">
As my father took his last mortal breath, I ate dinner with a
girl who had been in the <i>The Waltons</i>.
Unaware that my father was exiting his life, I said to her, “I know it’s
strange, but in school, I was jealous of the kids who lost a parent. They got
special attention. Everyone was nice to them.” It was a revelation of something
I’d long been embarrassed of to someone I wanted to kiss.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had fettuccine Alfredo, which was brave on a date. Well,
I’m not certain if it was a date or not. She’d been giving me mixed signals for
a year of meals and movies, but we were still going out, be it as a
pre-physical or a non-physical couple not yet determined. I didn't know at that
moment that she would be the last girl I went out who would meet my father. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few months earlier we had flown east together on my Continental
frequent flyer miles, on a red-eye, changing planes in Denver in the middle of
the night and landing in Newark at six in the morning, where my father picked
us up before work. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d called him a couple days before and asked,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Dad, when you pick us up, can you come in Mom’s Skylark? The
Regal is in pretty bad shape.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Okay,” he said in a resigned voice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And would you clean it first?” I requested to impress the
girl from <i>The Waltons</i>, to impress the
girl who I may or may not be taking on a cross country date to New Jersey. He
didn't push back. He understood. He understood that his car was rusted and
filthy. He understood that I was scared of the girl I was flying with. He
understood his role in my social theater.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am in some ways like my father. If you gave me one
adjective to describe him it would be afraid. If I got another, I’d add
responsible. Some more that come to mind are smart, teaser, loving, joker, and
uncomfortable. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On second thought, maybe uncomfortable should be first. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know if he bought his shirts with too short an arm
length on purpose or not, but seeing him in a dress shirt with the sleeve
buttoned up tight against his arm two inches or more above his wrist was as
uncomfortable to witness as it must have been to wear.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I couldn’t see his shirtsleeves when he met us at the
airport. He wore a sports coat and tie despite the fact that he didn’t normally
wear them to work. He drove us from the airport to his office in the Academy
Building, playing tour guide on the trip through the blackened brick husks of
mill buildings and factories, telling my maybe date how all the patent leather in
the world had once come from right here in Newark, New Jersey. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His voice was subdued – low, maybe out of shyness, maybe
just a lack of breath. I interrupted him to get him to stop boring the girl. I
pointed out that we could see the skyline of New York if we looked to the
right, beyond the black Pulaski Skyway viaduct.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Don’t forget, your mom needs her car back by noon,” my
father said, revealing unintentionally that this was our family’s ‘good’ car,
that we had much to hide, and that we weren’t very good at hiding.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We dropped him at his stained white office, the Academy
Building near Broad and Raymond. I quickly
steered the Skylark out of Newark, into the Holland Tunnel, and to the City, to the
Village, where I deposited my travelling companion at her friend’s apartment,
not seeing her again until we met in Midtown a week later for our ride back to
the airport. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the time, I was having dreams that my father had passed.
Every dream was different, but in every one he was there, then he wasn't and I knew he was dead. Only I’d wake up and realize that he was alive
and everything was okay.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The dreams started on a trip to Berkeley with another girl
who I was seeing but not dating. We’d met up with my parents to visit my
brother at Cal. As my father, my mother, my non-girlfriend, and I began walking
one of Berkeley’s steeper sidewalks, my father stopped and whispered, “I have
trouble with hills. Let’s take the bus.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He said this matter-of-factly, as if saying, “it’s raining,
let’s take the bus,” but he was telling me that the sidewalk was too steep for
him. There were dozens of other people of all ages walking up the hill at the
time. My father was fifty. He may as well have said to me, “Take me to a
doctor,” but he didn’t, or I didn’t listen, and I let him die.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was writing a play about my father’s death before he died.
It was the story of a middle-aged Christian Scientist who took his last breath
at home suddenly. I was halfway through the first draft when fiction became
reality.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am 53-years old as I write these words; the age my father
was when I had fettuccine Alfredo with the girl who was in <i>The Waltons</i>. I live in an apartment that I share with my wife and
two teenagers. Our stove is an old Wedgewood range that we have been told once
belonged to Mary Pickford the actress and, like my father, the Christian
Scientist. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For years the stove would conk out, sometimes at
inappropriate times, as if cooking was too steep a hill. Despite our not having
it fixed, it would start again. <span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">We didn’t
have the stove repaired until one day it died. </span>A repairman came to the house, looked at it for ten minutes, got a new
part from his truck, and fixed it. In the seven years since the stove has never
conked out again. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the years between 1985 and 1989 my father conked out and
perked up a lot. There’d be days he couldn’t climb a hill and then there would
be days that he was fine. He was a human claxon with an unfortunate mute button.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The night after my fettuccine Alfredo date with the girl, who
I may have been seeing or may have not been seeing, I had another dream about
my father. In this one, he was alive, in bed across the hall from my childhood
room. I was also in bed, kicking the wall like I used to when I was ten.<br />
<br />
In
real life he would yell at me, “Chuck, stop kicking the wall and go to sleep.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In my dream he changed it to, “Chuck, wake up so I can go to sleep.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At that moment that I understood what he was asking of me
the phone rang and woke me. I got my wish to be special, to have everyone be
nice to me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Weeks later, one friend, being nice to me, got me a meeting
with the Broadway director Ulu Grossbard. I sat in his office in shock that I
was meeting someone of his stature. He said, “I am sorry for your loss. I hear
you wrote a play about it?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s not finished,” I explained. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But you were writing about it before?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I nodded yes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I want to read it when it’s done,” he said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I never sent it to him. I was afraid. I was uncomfortable.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I still dream of my father. Whenever he appears in a dream,
alive and well, I ask anyone else in the dream not to tell my father that he is
dead, because if they do he will disappear. Still someone, often me, lets it slip
and he vanishes. While he is still there, I’m always inside a safe place
(the house I grew up in, my grandmother’s apartment, or somewhere else I feel sheltered)
but once he disappears I am outside. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is no roof. There is just sky, the world and me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The roof has been torn away.</div>
Charles Freerickshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862131316705936957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32739924.post-42663460897951422482014-10-20T17:21:00.000-07:002014-10-21T06:58:53.194-07:00Man and Woman at the Train Station<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It was a big
white Toyota pickup truck, a beefy looking and tall Tundra. It missed the
entrance to the main parking lot and swung around the auxiliary one to get back
to the drop-off area.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A man and a
woman, both blonde, both lost somewhere in that crevice between youth and middle
age, alit. She was in a hurry, tense; frumpy and sexy in a black dress. He was
slow, with the gait of a former high school football player who had gone on to
a career in gutter repair. She bought a ticket at the Metrolink machine while
he pulled her bags from the truck bed: four pieces of cheap luggage, enough for
a long trip, or all of someone’s personal belongings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“There are
no trains on Sunday,” I told them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“What?” she
asked, as if she had understood what I said but hadn’t been able to process its
implication. At the same time, he looked at me with the gaze of a dim-witted
dog wondering if it was going to get a scratch behind the ears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Where can I
get a train?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Downtown
Los Angeles,” I said. "Where do you want to go?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I don’t
care. I just don’t want to be here anymore,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Neither of
them was crying. Neither of them was sad. He stared lazily. She looked around
as if maybe something on the platform would give her different information than
I had.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“You can get
a train anywhere from downtown,” I assured her while pointing to
where Los Angeles was via the tracks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Frantic and
yet calm, she looked back at the vacant man and the big truck, then turned to
me and asked, “What about a bus? Does the bus stop here on Sundays? Doesn’t matter where it goes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“There’s no
bus,” I explained.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One by one
the bags went back into the truck, softly – without malice. The man got behind
the steering wheel as if it was any other day. The woman climbed into the
passenger seat as if she had not expected to ever sit there again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The truck
took off in the direction that I had pointed. They were quickly too far for me
to tell them that wasn't how to get to Los Angeles. I had no way to explain that
road they were speeding down was just a very long dead end.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But then
again, I’m not certain it would have mattered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Charles Freerickshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862131316705936957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32739924.post-57391580624723662582014-07-16T16:18:00.001-07:002014-07-16T16:18:27.063-07:00Dishwasher ReadingDespite the fact that I wrote this entire story in about 30 minutes it remains one of the favorites of my readers. I have been asked to perform this piece at half a dozen locations and I have gotten more comments on it than any other.<br /><br />
<br /><br />
Here is a reading of it back in 2005 in Hollywood CA.<br /><br />
<br /><br />
<br /><br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/EZSVYm3XJss" width="459"></iframe>Charles Freerickshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862131316705936957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32739924.post-82605680148934850612014-01-22T19:20:00.002-08:002022-03-31T17:28:33.931-07:00Story Worthy AppearanceHere's the link to my Story Worthy appearance! <a href="http://bit.ly/1aE8NxG" target="_blank">http://bit.ly/1aE8NxG</a>Charles Freerickshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862131316705936957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32739924.post-75566522196746357722014-01-02T10:18:00.002-08:002014-01-02T10:20:46.860-08:00An Incident at Madam Wu's - PodcastClick here and then click on the show title itself to listen to my reading at I Love A Good Story.
<a href="http://www.iloveagoodstory.com/profile.php?p=170">Podcast</a>
Charles Freerickshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862131316705936957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32739924.post-42666529839622419072013-08-29T16:04:00.001-07:002013-08-29T16:04:29.842-07:00Word Salad Reading - July 20, 2103Had the distinct pleasure of perofrming at the multi-talented and fabulous Lora Cain's Word Salad back in July. Here's a wondeful compeltation of some of the talent there that night.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/iWo3RfQ__Zw" width="560"></iframe>Charles Freerickshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862131316705936957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32739924.post-37167567915738668032013-01-29T09:25:00.002-08:002013-07-03T22:52:34.635-07:00David Cruz Show appearance Jan 18, 2013Here's a link to my appearance on the David Cruz show, from January 18, 2013.
<iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/MBiBkp3WU10" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe>Charles Freerickshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862131316705936957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32739924.post-36241010310275495552012-09-10T17:23:00.001-07:002012-09-10T17:25:10.582-07:00Kinderkmack Road ReadingReading the Manifest Destiny of Kinderkmack Road on I LOVE A GOOD STORY - June 17, 2012, Culver City, CA.
<a href="http://iloveagoodstory.com/lib/51/Vol%2051%20-%2002%20-%20The%20Manifest%20Destiny%20o.mp3">" target="_blank">Audio of Freericks here</a> Charles Freerickshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862131316705936957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32739924.post-91071872481516169562012-07-03T19:52:00.003-07:002012-09-10T17:21:01.755-07:00Fartalina readingReading Just a Little Fartalina at Word Salad LA.
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/6rTzFJJ-u5A" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Charles Freerickshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02862131316705936957noreply@blogger.com1