Call Me Jose

It was Cinco de Mayo when the drunk man handed the boy a small Mexican flag and asked him when the train was going to leave.  The boy took the flag, looked over at me nervously and then told the drunk man that the train had already started moving.  The drunk man looked outside the windows, confused, and said,”Nooo!  This train is NAAAWT moving.  It’s the people outside that are moving, not the train. Right?”  The drunk man then turned around suddenly and commanded all those who could hear him, “Hey!  Stop with the Mexican jokes!  This is no time for Mexican jokes!”

 

The boy and I were lucky to find empty seats on the loud and crowded commuter train that would take us home. We were surrounded by boisterous, mostly intoxicated, mostly harmless soccer fans celebrating a victory.  It was the drunk man however, who took the final empty seat beside me.

He looked to the boy, seated across from us, still holding the Mexican flag.  His face lit up. “Hey, buddy!  Where’d you get that Mexican flag?  Did you know today is Cinco de Mayo?  Do you know the real reason for Cinco de Mayo?  Well, really, it’s an excuse for Americans to drink.”    The drunk man then lectured the boy and I on the history of Cinco de Mayo.  We also learned about his wife and his kids and his job and the biggest regrets of his life.

 

Across the aisle, a group of young men were debating what to draw on their friend who was “resting” with his eyes closed.  One put down a Sharpie marker and reached in his backpack.  He announced, “ZONE Bars!  These are my victory ZONE Bars!”  ZONE Bars were passed out to all.  The loud, young men were overly polite and offered unrestrained hellos to all who passed through our train car.  The man closest to the door was even kind enough to secretly drop a piece of ZONE Bar in every bag or purse that passed in front of him.  One member of the group chastised 3 kids who ran through the train.  “Where are your parents?  You are disturbing the nice people on this train!  Sit down and put on your seat bolts.”  Someone else yelled out, “Seat BOLTS!  You said BOLTS!”  And all the men laughed.  Someone in the group opened a beer he had hidden in his coat.  And all the men cheered.

The least rambunctious of the young men looked across the aisle and saw the boy, the drunk man and I staring at his group of friends.   He tried to hush his them, “Hey guys, hey guys, calm down a bit.  That lady over there--she’s clearly with child. You should really calm down.”

I turned around to find the pregnant person behind me.  There was no one there but me.

 

The drunk man next to me began asking me questions.  Did you like the soccer game?  Is that boy holding that Mexican flag your kid?  Where are you from?  Are you married?  For how long?  What do you do? 

I told him that sometimes I write stories.

“Are you gonna write about this train?  Are you gonna write a story about ME?” he said with a smile.  “If you do, don’t use my real name.  Don’t call me Pete.”

There was a pause and then he requested proudly,

  “Call me, Jose.”

Drunk Jose then turned to the boy and with much surprise asked him, “Hey buddy!  Where’d you get that Mexican flag?  I used to have one just like it.”

 

When the train pulled into our station, the boy and I stood up to leave.  Drunk Jose said it had been a pleasure.    And then he grabbed the boy by the arm and looked him in the eye. “You’re a good kid.  I can see that.  Don’t ever change that.  Ever.”

And with that the boy and I and a small Mexican flag departed the train.

As we walked off the platform I wondered out loud to the boy if our train ride was awful or hilarious.  I wondered if he was scarred for life.  And then I remembered those young punks across the aisle.

“Those drunk Zone Bar guys who kept yelling ‘seat bolt’-- I didn’t like them at all.” 

The boy shook his head in confusion. “Why? What are you talking about?”

“They thought I was pregnant!   They said… ‘She is clearly with child.’”

The boy was dumbfounded. “They didn’t think you were pregnant!”  He said, shaking his head.  “They didn’t say ‘clearly with child’ they said you were, ‘here with her child’.  They were talking about me!”  The boy didn’t have much more to say to me after that.

 

 

The boy and I walked away from the train station in silence.  He waved his new Mexican flag.  I looked at my reflection in the store front windows trying to see if I really did look pregnant.  And somewhere further down the train tracks, drunk Jose, on his way home from a soccer game, was thoroughly enjoying a Zone Bar as he tried to remember where he left his Mexican flag.

 

Check This Out!

At a loss as to what to recommend to you this time, the teenager has submitted her new favorite lip balm.  She is quite taken with Nivea- A Kiss of Smoothness Hydrating Lip Care SPF 4.  She declares it "the best Chapstick ever!”.  I agree, since she stole it from my purse.

 

 

 

She's a Kicker

I don’t think it would have been accurate to think of the woman as elderly. I’m sure that would have offended her. Perhaps she could have been labeled as older. Mature might have worked as well. For certain, I knew she was a sensibly dressed grandma.


I stood at the very end of the field, down near the goal, watching the boy’s new soccer team warm up for the first game of the spring soccer season. The grandma lady walked toward me and planted herself near me. Her salt and pepper hair was short and curly. Her black jacket was simple and waterproof. Her hair was covered with a clear plastic rain scarf that tied at her neck. Her square black handbag hung from the elbow of her bent arm. Her black rimmed eyeglasses were oversized and sprinkled with rain mist. The pants she wore were polyester knit, I’m convinced. The boots she wore were rubber. They came up to her knees and were covered in ladybugs and shovels and daisy flowers. I watched her raise the arm that didn’t support the handbag. She waved to one of the boys on the field. She yelled out, “Make grandma proud sweetie. You try your very best! You hear grandma, now, sweetie, you hear me? And don’t forget to KICK THEIR BUTTS!” And then that sensibly dressed grandma took a wadded up tissue from her hand and wiped her misty glasses.

As soon as the grandma had spoken, the boy’s new coach turned abruptly toward the sideline where we were standing. He stiffened up, raised his eyebrows and turned a tiny bit pale. His eyes focused on the grandma. As she shoved her wadded tissue back into her hand, she acknowledged the coach, “Hey, coach! Good to see you! You don’t have to worry. I’m going to be better this year! See? I’m way down here at the end of the field away from all the people. No one should get hurt!”


Despite my efforts to do it quietly, the grandma heard me chuckling at the confusing absurdity of the situation. She turned around and faced me.

“Oh honey, I’m blocking your view. Let me move further down the field.”

“Oh please don’t bother.” I told her. “I’m a wanderer during the game. I can’t sit or stand still. I get too nervous for the boy.”

The grandma laughed and said, “Well ok, honey. As long as you keep moving we’ll probably be ok. But I don’t recommend you stand next to me for too long though. “

“Really? Why is that?”

The grandma glanced toward the coach and then turned her head back toward me. “You’re new to this team aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well...I’m a bit of a kicker.”



After a short, fairly uncomfortable pause, I managed to mutter, “………uh…what?”



The sensibly dressed grandma then explained, “Yes, honey. I admit it. I’m a kicker. I kick people.” She then pointed up the sidelines. “See that lady in the purple jacket? She was sitting next to me in the final game of last season...well, I kicked her 5 times in the first half alone.” The grandma lowered her head in what I thought was a bit of shame…until I saw the small grin of amusement that she was attempting to hide.


“You actually KICK people? Why……?”

“I’m not sure why. I guess I can’t help wanting to get into the excitement of the games myself. By kicking from the sideline, I feel like I’m helping those boys out. Sometimes people get in my way.”

I had no clue how to respond to that.

“Oh, honey. The game is starting. You’d better start your wandering now...before I get myself going here......”




Said the sensibly dressed grandma.






Check This Out!

The Slightly Exaggerated family recently watched a few Alfred Hitchcock movies. Despite being older movies, both Rear Window and Dial M for Murder kept the teenager and the boy captivated. The teenager handled the suspense by yelling advice to the characters in peril. The boy gave the movies the best review he has ever given, “Uh….yeah. They were pretty good, I guess.” The husband even looked up from his car magazine to watch. And I thought they were so fantastic that I now have all of the Hitchcock movies in my Netflix queue.

Lockdown

While the rapid gunfire, so close to where the teenager and I were sitting, did come as quite a shock, it was the look on the teenager’s pale face that scared me the most. “Those weren’t gun shots, were they, mom?” the teenager asked me with wide eyes, her heart beating much faster than it was just a moment before. In one second, I found myself nervously assuring her that it couldn’t possibly be gunshots. And in the next second, it seemed, we were in lockdown.

The teenager and I had gone to watch a girls’ high school soccer game at a local stadium. Just as we took our seats the shots rang out. It happened just like the shooting victims on the TV news said it would. It was fast forward. And it was slow motion. All at the same time.

As the shots rang out I saw dozens of birds fly off the roof of the building next to where we were sitting. It seemed as if I saw the details of every single bird. I saw both soccer teams running off the field, toward the locker rooms, with escorts yelling at them to run faster. It seemed as if I saw every single girl’s face filled with perplexed fear. I saw the fans in the stands questioning each other. “Did that sound like gunshots to you?” I saw the usher running toward us telling us to get to the safety of the building as quickly as we could. I remember running toward the building beside the teenager. I remember thinking that it was important for me to shield her from the gunshots. I remember wishing that I knew which direction they were coming from so I would know which side of her to run beside.

After an hour and a half in lockdown we were allowed to leave. They said it was gang related. They said they never caught the shooters. It happens all the time, they said. No big deal. The shaken up soccer teams left as well. The game was rescheduled for later that evening at another field.


The husband took the teenager to the rescheduled game that evening. As he left, I handed him the cell phone. “Now, I don’t want any calls about teams being rushed off the field or your life being in danger or anything…..!” I jokingly lectured. We laughed at the absurdity of my overprotective warnings.


The game was to start at 7:00 pm. At 7:01 pm my phone rang. It was the husband. Shocked, I answered the phone and didn’t give him any chance to speak. “Why are you calling me?” I yelled. “Hasn’t the game started yet?”

“No," the husband answered. “We’re having a little situation here. The teams have been rushed off the field into the safety of the locker room. It looks as if it’s going to be awhile before the game can start.”

The husband tried to explain more but I quickly interrupted him with my own rapid paced questioning. “What do you mean ‘rushed off the field’? There are no gangs in that area! It can’t possibly be another gang shooting! That’s ridiculous! Are you and the teenager ok? Are you safe? Seriously! What could possibly stop a game other than ‘SHOTS FIRED’? What could be worse than gang shootings?” I hysterically yelled at the husband as I had flashbacks to my own scary afternoon.

Like a good and wise and experienced husband, he paused to make sure I was done with my unrestrained verbal flailing.

And then he spoke.

“I’ll tell you what can be worse than gangs. It is MOTHER NATURE! We are in a 30 minute lightning delay. We have quite a storm going on here!”

OH. It was a storm.

Gunshots versus lightning-I wasn't quite sure which was worse.


Check This Out!

The older half of the Slightly Exaggerated family recently enjoyed the old Bette Davis and Joan Crawford movie, "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?". While we initially thought this to be a nice, happy movie, we were quickly proven wrong. It's a bit scary and a bit shocking...but all in a nice old movie not too over the top kind of way. We enjoyed this movie while eating our romaine, salmon, red onion and garbanzo bean salads topped with sea salt and black pepper croutons. Add a nice vinaigrette and you can enjoy the perfect movie/salad combination as well.