Your Sunday Night Football Open Thread

The weather turned again. The sky has become a grey slate, punctuated occasionally by an off-color sun that brings no warmth. My hand, sliced open when I was taken by surprise, is almost fully healed. I wear gloves most times when out in public in order to hide the radish hued scar that runs parallel to the lifeline on my palm. A trick of circumstance that causes me to smirk or grimace, depending on my mood. If anyone asks, I just say I’m taking extra precautions because of the pandemic. Folks just nod…

The apartment complex where I live is probably 50 years old or so-there are washing machines in the rooms so all the laundry is done in the basement. And I got to thinking that maybe the laundromat on the edge of downtown might be a spot to spend some time…observing. I’ve started making it a habit to head down there on Saturdays, do a load, read a paper and just watch. It was nestled in the middle of a two story strip mall and had some apartments up above. There was an empty butcher shop and another spot where hopeful restauranteurs opened and then inevitably closed after spending all their money on their dream of being a business owner.

Saturdays were usually busy-harried housewives trailing bored kids mingled with younger single men on their own. Older men whose wives had left them in one way or another wandered in and out. One in particular stood out. He was gaunt and tired-looking but carried himself well if you can square those attributes. His clothes were old and frayed but at one time had been expensive. He was fastidious about folding everything properly as it came out of the dryer, one by one-he wasn’t the type to throw everything on the table that was provided and root through his undershirts, socks and pants. After a few weeks I noticed he would sit on the bench directly out front and have exactly one cigarette. It was usually about ten minutes into the wash cycle. One day I finally timed it right and headed out to the bench five minutes before he did. I wanted him to come to me.

Harold was a widower and lived in one of the apartments up above. He’d retired at 58, after putting away “some good amount of coin in the insurance business” as he said it, and looked forward to a happy retirement with Margaret. But health and family issues started popping up-his son was in and out of jail and his wife developed throat cancer. Trips back and forth to Toronto, an experimental drug trial in California, lawyers for his son-all of it combined to drain all that coin out of his bank account. “Now I’ve just got the one pension and it’s not that much. I don’t know where my son is. It’s gotten to be a bit much.” I commiserated with him-it was obvious he just wanted to talk to an adult, share his story with someone. I figured I could swing this to my advantage and sure enough I was able to get an invite to his aparment “if you bring the whiskey”. Of course.

The following Friday evening I headed over his place at 7pm. I figured the walls were thin so I’d have to quietly go about my business later on. I fashioned a garrote that fit neatly in my pocket and also a plastic bag that would fit nicely over his head should the need arise. The plan was straightforward and had always worked before-get him drunk, wait until his guard was down and then let events unfold as they may.

We were only an hour in and it was plain that he was telling the truth when he said he wasn’t a drinker. He got up, unsteadily and mumbled something about ‘crackers’ or ‘snacks’. As he stumbled over to the cupboard and started rummaging I got up behind him, my heart thumping in raw anticipation… “Pappy? You here?” I quickly tucked the garotte away and turned towards the entrance. A 12 or 13 year old boy stopped in his tracks when he saw me, not sure what he saw but knowing something wasn’t right. “Who’s this, Pappy?” Harold realized that I hadn’t provided him with one and seeing the boy’s face inquired, “Uh yeah, what is your name anyway?” I mumbled, “You can just call me Buddy”. His need to exhibit proper manners overcame him and Harold said, “Well this is my grandson David, we live together because his mom is uh, ‘indisposed’ right now and I have no idea where my son is. We kinda like this arrangement though, don’t we David?” David nodded in agreement as he moved between his grandad and me.

Needless to say, the night’s work did not get completed-I shuffled out of there quickly and didn’t bother going back to the laundromat again. Sometimes the breaks just don’t go your way and other people get lucky. Real lucky.

TO THE GAME!

Rams/Niners:

Goff has bounced back in a big way this year and it’s a bit strange because he has the league’s lowest average depth of target at 6.3 yards. Gone are those field-stretching plays-they’ve been replaced with much shorter routes that allow gifted wr’sKupp and Woods to pile up yards after the catch. And wouldn’t you know, it’s working-the Rams lead the league in that category at 7.3 yards per. The Niners secondary, the one that was gobsmacked by Fitzmagic might have some problems tonight.

Have at it.