Red Chuck

To The Man At The Travellers Game On Whom My Six Year Old Spilled Red Slushie

First of all, we didn't foresee you sitting there. There was no precognition on our part. But, and I want to make sure this fact is absolutely clear, we found those seats first. You came waddling up with your family approximately 11 minutes after we sat down. There were plenty of other places in the stands for you to choose. Plenty.

Secondly, when I returned with 3 Slushies, 1 Sprite, and 1 Corona, I had been through hell. Literally. Hell. Waiting. The slushie line. The soft drink line. The beer line. And, before all that, the Travs Cash line (because I didn't actually have cash so I had to go to the office and use my MasterCard to buy green laminates redeemable for concessions). Plus, it was hot. Hotter than the stands, I presume, because of all the pre-game queues of people crammed together down there in the bowels of the stadium where the concessions are prepared and sold. People sweating. People waiting. People wanting to leave but having to endure. Like I said, hell. Therefore, I was a little grumpy too.

Thirdly, I didn't mean to sit so close to your wife. By the time I returned with my flimsy cardboard drink holder and my melting Slushies, I barely even noticed your wife. I chose to sit on the outer bound of our group. It was a shepherding move. I was the closing paranthesis for our sprawling, squealing, thirsty little collective. I intentionally sat opposite the other parents in our party just so that I could help form an amiable enclosure of sorts. Establish a natural boundary. I was our Eastern Seaboard, our English Channel, our Bering Strait. I didn't even notice that I was also lapping at your shore. Like I said, a shepherding move, not a "making a move" move. I didn't realize your wife was so close to me. So when you, in all your corpulence. . . I mean, god, what a lot of you there was. . . anyway, when you walked up and grunted at me. . . somthing like "I want to sit by my wife". . . your tone was so grim, so clenched, so steely that I immediately bristled, even though I knew exactly what you had been through. Remember. I'd been there myself — the lines, the heat, hell itself. To be so sullen, to be so rude, because of that, I immediately did not like you. But, I did say "excuse me". I tried to speak politley. And I moved.

And then, the accident. Yes. It was an accident. He slipped. He was trying to sit on his bottom but those bleachers are deceptive, wider than you would think (probably to accomodate fat asses like yourself), and so, misjudging his distance from the next step up, he sat straight down, fell straight back, and in that hard landing, released his hold on that precious cup.

And when I said "I am so sorry" while also trying to console him (and boy was he upset, because not only did he hurt his back but also he lost a full slushie), you were silent. And we were all looking at you. My family, your family, my friends, strangers, all looking. And I was foolishly counting on understanding from you. (I mean, it was just 2 silver dollar sized spots on the right leg of your shorts. It could have been much much worse.) I expected civility. We-are-all-in-this-together words of forgiveness: "Aw shucks. . . no worries. . . I hope the little fella is OK" (ed. note: there was a lot of crying. . . OK. . . lets call it loud wailing from the 6 year old). But you didn't speak those lines. You weren't playing that game. No. You didn't speak at all. In your gruff world, a player only stares stoically at an empty playing field and coldly ignores the surrounding humanity in the stands.

And for a split second, I almost took that other step. Mentally I went there. Why? Because I don't like to be ignored. Plus there's gallantry in voicing certain words. You know the phrase. You've heard it before. Perhaps you've used it yourself. The "let me pay for your dry cleaning" phrase. And I have to say, here was the perfect moment for that utterance. But with you, there was no dialogue. You established those rules. So now, let me turn that dry cleaning offer over and present you with this small curse: I hope those red dye #40 stains don't ever come out.

Posted by Red Chuck at June 7, 2005 01:52 PM