The following is a fictional short story with a heavy Celtics theme which will be published in five parts over the course of this week. I hope it will provide a form of entertainment as we fill some time before the Celtics return. I hope you enjoy the story. Please note, this contains some NSFW language.
If There’s Green, There’s Still Life
By John Karalis
Chapter 1
The Shaw’s cashier was struggling with the concept behind being given $20.02 for the $10.52 order she just rang up. It was as if she’d just been asked to recite pi to the 15th digit.
Pythagoras was going to need a few minutes to solve this mystery, so I passed the time like I always do. I pulled out my phone and opened Twitter.
I’d made what I thought was a pretty killer “crying Michael Jordan” meme earlier but it wasn’t getting the retweets I thought it deserved. Frank Kaminsky basically shat himself against the Celtics Friday night and I thought for sure this would be worthy of at least a few followers. I wondered if Jay King would retweet it if I sent it to him. Would Jeff Clark? Is seeking the approval of beat writers and bloggers something that a 37 year-old man with two kids should really be doing?
It was in the middle of this existential crisis that I got the text from my sister, Anne.
Dad’s sick.
I put my lunch on conveyor belt. Turkey and Swiss on a ciabatta roll, macaroni salad that probably had way too much mayo, Cape Cod mesquite BBQ chips, and a sixer of Sam Light. It was 12:30 and I was proud of myself for having already fixed that shaky front step and the lattice those damn raccoons keep pulling open. The Celtics were on in half an hour and I had a day-drinking appointment in my upstairs man cave.
The total came to $24.08, which upset me because all I had was a $20 and some loose change and I really wanted to get in on the sorta exact change mind-fuck fun with our genius friend. Instead, I swiped my card and was out the door.
There were still no retweets by the time I’d gotten the car, and I was beginning to wonder if I wasn’t as funny as I thought I was when Anne called. I dismissed the fleeting insecurity as society’s problem, not mine, and answered the phone.
“Hey. So, is Dad just having withdrawals or did someone just finally break his jaw?”
“Bill, I think you should probably come to the hospital.”
“Ah shit. The hospital?”
“You should talk to him?”
Talk to him? I hadn’t talked to him in a solid six months; and that had been the first time I’d spoken to him in maybe eight months. Why would I want to talk to him? Unless…
“Shit, is he dying?”
“Just… will you please…”
I looked at my lunch. It didn’t have anything to say.
“Do I have to come by now? If I come by at like three, will he already be dead or…”
“Oh for fuck’s sake Bill. Don’t pull this shit with me now…”
Her voice tailed off with a whispery quiver. It was followed by the short gasps that were about to lead up to full-scale wailing and crying.
“Okay. Okay. Gimme two minutes to head home and shower. I’ll be right there.”
I drove home, walked into the house, and turned on the TV. I opened my sandwich and took as big a bite as I could, then I set my DVR for the game.
“This fucking asshole is making me miss Celtics-Lakers.”
Another huge bite. I was angry and taking it out on the sandwich. It retaliated by taking its sweet ass time reaching my stomach and giving me the hiccups along the way. I cracked a beer and drank half of it in one pull. I half-ass wrapped the rest of the sandwich back in its flimsy cellophane, threw it back in the Shaw’s bag, and put it everything in the fridge. I chugged the rest of the beer in the kitchen, went back to the fridge, grabbed two more, and opened them.
“C’mon, Sam. We’re taking a shower together today, my friend. I think I’m gonna need your help with this.”
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