Since January I’ve been working in the mental health section of the clinic and for the most part I like working here. I like it because it’s a lot closer to where I live and my boss is really cool, unlike the last one I had. My last boss was not cool at all except in his own mind, and in his own mind he was AWESOME, but that’s another story altogether. I guess that last sentence really says a lot about me because I’m taking a cheap shot at my former, flamboyant, thinks he’s better than anyone else supervisor – I know, I’m petty…so, sue me.

Well moving on to the real subject of this post – one of the great things about working in the mental health building is that not only is this the mental health section and the people that come here are colorful, but the building is located right in the middle of one of the worst areas of the city. The reason this is great is because it’s like my friend, Zack says he likes to talk to people who have been through a lot because by talking to them you do learn something because they have something to say and different ways of seeing things. Believe me, there are lots of people who have been through rough times in around the area where I work.

I remember when I first came here one of the nurses was on break with me and she pointed to the gas station across the street (the one I was told was off limits to us) and she pointed to the dumpster next to the store and told me they had found a body in it. She also told me about a man who tried to rob the store and was chased by the cashier. As they were running the cashier shot the robber in the ass – I guess when he woke up that morning he didn’t realize just how much of a pain in the ass it would be to rob that gas station. The nurse then pointed to a stop light on the other side of the building. The same stop light that I had to pass going home. She told me that a guy was waiting at the red light and someone came up to the car and randomly shot him in the head. She went on to tell me about a body found behind our building. I told her that it would have been nice if someone had told me all this before I agreed to take the position, but what can you do? It is what it is.

Since working here I haven’t really seen any violence, but I have had encounters with some colorful characters. The other day I was outside when a very thin lady approached me. She was so thin that she looked like a skeleton with a thin leathery covering. Her skin was so thin that I was afraid that if I looked close enough I would see her organs through her skin. She had cornrows in her hair and as she approached me she smiled a toothless smile at me. I’m sorry but as I looked at her I imagined her being a living jack-o-lantern on a skeleton body. As she walked by me she waved her skeleton hand at me and said, “Hello baby boy.”

I didn’t know what to say so all I said was, “Hello.” She turned, gave me another toothless smile and a look like she could eat me…if she had teeth, then she continued on her way.

…and that is just the beginning of The People in my Neighborhood.

This morning I was in a hurry to get to work, so I ended up forgetting my phone in my car. It’s not a big deal I decide to walk outside and get it during my break. I watch as an older man starts backing his truck into the parking spot in front my car. I’m watching as he backs right into my car.

As I’m standing there waiting for him to get out of the truck his wife approaches me. It seems that she came in another car and has parked in a spot a few spaces away. She has a tone to her voice that reminds me of a mean old teacher I had in the second grade. “What do you want?” She asks in a voice made gruff from smoking for many years.

I try to be clam and respectful as I tell her “he just backed into my car.”

There wasn’t any damage to my car but the fact is that he backed into my car and I wanted to make sure that he knew what he had done.

She acts like nothing has happened or like it’s an everyday thing that her husband backs into other people’s cars. ”I didn’t see anything.” She says nonchalantly. The wind is blowing her dyed blood orange hair so I can see some of her pink scalp and for some reason that kind of freaks me out.

At that point the man gets out of the truck. He’s wearing giant 1980’s headphones and a jean jacket. I can’t help but wonder if he has a huge boom box on the front seat of his truck. Although he was old and walked with the aid of a can, he must have excellent hearing because even with the giant headphone he seems to know what we were talking about and what was said. He answers, “yes I did. I felt it.”

The lady just sort of flips her head back like she had smelled something really bad. “Well, I didn’t see anything” She says again.

I double check to make sure that my car is ok and as I’m doing so the man asks me, “Do you have a problem?” By this time he has the giant 80’s headphones around his neck.

I almost have to laugh at this point. “You just backed into my car.”

“So?” The wife asks annoyed. “What do you want?”

I look at them and say, “A simple I’m sorry would be good.”

Neither one of them said anything, they just walked away.

I’m driving to work this morning listening to classic rock, minding my own business, and just when everything seems right in the world a Coca-Cola van swings into my lane and almost hits me. The driver not only almost hit me once, he almost hits me twice. The first time we are both waiting at the light, he’s on the far turning lane and I’m on the inner turning lane waiting for the green light. As the light turns green we both make the turn. I’m turning in my lane when out of nowhere the Coca-Cola van starts to move into my lane into the very space I’m in. I don’t know where this driver went to school, but I remember being taught that two objects, not even something as small as a proton, can take up the same space. I might even go so far as to say that I remember something along the lines that if two objects were to try to take up the same space then the bigger object would knock the smaller object out of the space, so by that logic – the Coca-Cola van would knock my little KIA right out of the car lane and send me into oncoming traffic, which would not be a good thing. At least it wouldn’t be a good thing in my book. It’s much like my much larger Aunt Emma knocking my much smaller Aunt Lupe out of the buffet lane. I’m sorry to use my Aunt Emma as an example of a large proton, but I’m trying to make it simple and it has nothing to do with the fact that she said I was fat when I went back home to my uncle’s funeral. Ok, so I hold grudges – sue me.

So, back to the Coca-Cola van – as the driver turned, trying to occupy my space I honked my horn at him. The sound of my little KIA honking madly at him must of woke him up or made him look up from his texting because he severed the other way. I continued my drive, not giving it a second thought. I know sometimes we don’t see the person next to us because of the blind spot – I’ve seen those mayhem commercials. There wasn’t any point in getting mad because we didn’t hit each other, so I let it go, no big deal. I didn’t even have the urge to flip him the bird. As we continue driving down the street the van driver decides he wants to try and get in my lane again, so without putting his signal light and without warning he starts to turn into my lane again. Apparently, he also failed to look before trying to make the lane switch otherwise he would have seen that I was still in the next lane driving next to him. For the second time within five minutes the Coca-Cola driver tries to turn into my lane while my car was in it. I slam on my brakes and honk at him again.

I’m thinking, “Keep that up and I’m switching to Pepsi”

The thing the Coke guy does that really gets my road rage going is that he doesn’t acknowledge the fact that he almost hit me, not once, but twice. He doesn’t wave or even look at me when I honk at him. I’m guessing it’s just an everyday occurrence that Coca-Cola van drivers try to drive other people off the street. The only thing I can think of is that my car is blue so maybe he thought I was the Pepsi delivery guy, so he was trying to run the competition off the road.

When I started my working career my first job was doing maintenance in a hotel. I remember the first week on the job I was walking through the hotel restaurant when an older woman stopped me and called me over to her table. She referred to me as “hey you boy” and that just didn’t sit right with me, but it was my first week so there wasn’t a lot I could. I didn’t really have much experience in dealing with rude people and it was the first week of my first real job. I didn’t want to get fired for saying what was going through my mind, so I just stayed quiet, took it with a grain of salt, and walked to her table to see what she wanted.

She said something much like, “Hey you boy.” When I looked over to where she was sitting with her husband she continued, “yes, you boy. Come here.”

I looked around to make sure that she was actually talking to me. I didn’t see anyone else around so I figured she had to be talking to me. She pointed at me and then pointed to the spot next to where she was sitting as if saying “hey boy, you come here.” The first two words that went through my mind were ‘fat bitch’ but I just smiled and walked to her table to see if I could help her.

She was an older lady who was extremely overweight. Her rolls of fat hung over the chair arm rests and she had a tiny chin resting on a bed of fat neck. I imagined that she couldn’t be very comfortable with her fat hanging over the arm rests; maybe she wanted a chair without arm rests. I remember that she looked like someone had painted her face because she way too much make-up and smelled of strong old lady perfume. I could smell the perfume while I was still about ten feet away and it was already starting to give me a headache.

“How can I help you?” I asked trying not to breathe in the perfume because it was really starting to make my head hurt and my eyes water.

She held up her fork and asked,”What do you see?”

I looked at her and then I looked at her husband who just looked away slightly embarrassed by his wife’s behavior. “I see a fork.” I answered with just a hint of sarcasm in my voice. I was reaching my breaking point and the old lady perfume was not helping. I couldn’t help staring at her tiny chin resting on the bed of neck fat. It was hard to look away from it. I had never seen anything like that. It was fascinating.

“If you’re going to be a smart ass about it I’d like to speak to your supervisor.” Her face was red and I figured that if she spoke to my boss I would be fired for being a smart ass to the customers and I couldn’t go home and tell my family that I had gotten fired during my first week at my first real job, so I said I was sorry.

“I’m sorry” I tried to sound sincere and it must have worked because the lady didn’t ask to speak to my boss anymore she just kept being a bitch to me. Her neck fat just giggled the more she talked and I just stared and stared at it.

“Well, if you look closely you will see that this fork is dirty. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see this.” She handed the fork to me and added, “Now, run along and bring me a clean fork will you?”

My friend who just started the job with me was standing a few feet away and he was rolling laughing at the whole situation. He walked back to the kitchen with me.

“Hey boy, you still need to clean out the pool” He said mocking the old lady.

I looked at him, “shut up.” I shoved him and he shoved me back. He was bigger than me so his shove almost knocked me down. We both laughed. I looked over at the old lady and she was glaring at me.

My friend and I had made friends with the cook because he was the one who made our lunches and we both knew that you wanted to be friends with the person that made your lunch. His name was Berry and he was a big black guy, but we fondly referred to him as BGD. Well we referred to him as BGD when we were alone; we never called him that to his face. It was my friend who came up with the acronym. When I asked him what it meant he said Big Greasy Dude. I laughed when I first heard him say that because Berry was huge. He stood about six feet six inches tall and weighed a good 300lbs. His white uniform was never white. I don’t think that in all the time I worked there I ever saw him in a white uniform. It was kind of yellowish, gray with light red smears all over it and it was always soaked in sweat and grease. The thing about this BGD is that he could make a mean chili burger.

I took the fork to him and told him that the lady at table five said it was dirty. He looked out to the restaurant and saw the lady who was impatiently waiting for her clean fork. “she said this was dirty?” he asked looking at the fork.

“Yeah” I said, grabbing a French fry from a plate waiting to be picked up by the waitress. “And she wants a clean one.”

“It’s not dirty” he said. “It just has some water spots from the dishwasher.” He showed me the fork and then said see and he did something I had never seen anyone do before but I’ve suspected has been done many times to customers who complain. He put the fork in his mouth and then ran his tongue over it. He took the fork and cleaned it on his apron and handed it back to me. ”it’s all clean and sparkling now.”

I was shocked. I couldn’t give the lady the fork that he had just taken out of his mouth. I’m not that kind of person. I told him that I couldn’t give the lady the fork after he had put it in his mouth. He said he would give it to the waitress and have her give it to her. I was ok with that because I was out of the whole bad karma circle. I walked out of the kitchen toward the pool which I should have already have cleaned. As I passed the old lady she said, “Well boy, where is my fork? I’ve been waiting for a long time and I don’t appreciate you keeping me waiting like this.” I tried to explain to her that the waitress was going to bring a clean one, but she wouldn’t hear it. “I want you to go and bring me a clean fork now before I call your supervisor.”

I looked at her tiny chin resting on her neck fat and simply said, “yes mama.” I walked back to the kitchen and looked at my friend and the BGD and asked, “Where is the damn fork?” The BGD laughed as he gave me the “clean fork.”

I got a message saying that my mailbox was full so I started looking through some old emails and found this one that was sent to me from The Tough Guy. If you’ve read my blog you might remember The Tough Guy from some of my earlier posts:

 

• 2009 Mr. Olympia Bodybuilding Expo 
• The Dietitian 
• 12 farts – a scientific study 
• 2008 Mr. Olympia Bodybuilding Expo 
• ”Dicky Do”

I know that some of you have probably already seen this or something like this, but after my decent into the darkside from my last post I thought I should post something a bit more positive and this is just what I think I need to follow or at least try to follow to get back on track to be the guy I used to be... the guy I want to be. Thanks to The Tough Guy for forwarding this to me.

 

2012 HANDBOOK

Health:

• Drink plenty of water.
• Eat breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince and dinner like a beggar.
• Eat more foods that grow on trees and plants and eat less food that is manufactured in plants..
• Live with the 3 E's -- Energy, Enthusiasm and Empathy
• Make time to pray.
• Play more games
• Read more books than you did in 2011
• Sit in silence for at least 10 minutes each day
• Sleep for 7 hours.
• Take a 10-30 minute walk daily. And while you walk, smile.

Personality:

• Don't compare your life to others. You have no idea what their journey is all about.
• Don't have negative thoughts or things you cannot control. Instead invest your energy in the positive present moment.
• Don't overdo. Keep your limits.
• Don't take yourself so seriously. No one else does.
• Don't waste your precious energy on gossip.
• Dream more while you are awake
• Envy is a waste of time. You already have all you need..
• Forget issues of the past. Don't remind your partner with His/her mistakes of the past. That will ruin your present happiness.
• Life is too short to waste time hating anyone. Don't hate others.
• Make peace with your past so it won't spoil the present.
• No one is in charge of your happiness except you.
• Realize that life is a school and you are here to learn. Problems are simply part of the curriculum that appear and fade away like algebra class but the lessons you learn will last a lifetime.
• Smile and laugh more.
• You don't have to win every argument. Agree to disagree....

Society:

• Call your family often.
• Each day give something good to others.
• Forgive everyone for everything..
• Spend time w/ people over the age of 70 & under the age of 6.
• Try to make at least three people smile each day.
• What other people think of you is none of your business.
• Your job won't take care of you when you are sick. Your friends will. Stay in touch.

Life:

• Do the right thing!
• Get rid of anything that isn't useful, beautiful or joyful.
• GOD heals everything.
• However good or bad a situation is, it will change..
• No matter how you feel, get up, dress up and show up.
• The best is yet to come..
• When you awake alive in the morning, thank GOD for it.
• Your Inner most is always happy. So, be happy.

Now let’s see how I do as far as following these. It’s one thing to post these on a blog, it’s another to actually follow them.

I always felt obligated to give something every time someone walked up to me and asked me for some “spare change.” If I had it then I felt like I had to give it to them otherwise bad karma would stalk me and kick my ass, but recently things have changed. Every time I walk out of the clinic some random stranger asks me for money. They want money to buy a soda, money to make a call, money to ride the bus, etc. I’m thinking that next time someone walks towards me I’m going to ask them for a dollar before they get a chance to ask me. I’ll turn the tables on them and see how they like it. Maybe I’ll ask them for two because of inflation

I don’t know if it’s the fact that I’m older and as I age I get more cynical. I'm not just more cynical with life, but with my job as well. I remember when I first started working at this job the patients were all so nice to me and loved me. One patient looked at me and told something along the lines of “You’re so kind hearted. Don’t ever change. Don’t let this job change you because it will try. I’ve seen it change a lot of people” Those were some strange words for a stranger to say to me. I think that’s why they have stayed with me all this time.

I’d like to say that she was wrong, but I can see how this job is changing me, and has changed me. I don’t feel like that bright-eyed kid who thought he could do well and help everyone. I used to believe in the system and the fact that if you did your best then you’ll be promoted and life would only get better. In the years that I’ve been here I’ve learned that no matter what you do for a person they will never be truly happy. They will want more and if you can’t give it to them they will complain about you. They will never truely be happy. They will expect you to go out of your way for them every time they come in and will not take responsibility for their own actions. No one will appreciate that you do your best or that you go above and beyond. They will recognize the screw up and move them up. They will hire the boss’s daughter and when she has trouble with her boss they will move her to your clinic so that she doesn’t get fired and she’ll be just as incompetent at the new clinic as she was at the old.

The only time they notice you is if you do something wrong. The supervisors will never pat you on the back for a job well done – maybe they fear their hand will fall off because it’s not used to patting people on the back it’s used to stabbing and twisting the knife. I’ve learned that it’s not about what you know but who you know.

I feel like something is coming over me, almost as if it were a dark cloud surrounding me and encasing me in a hard “I don’t give shit” shell. The other day someone approached me and asked for a dollar. I told him that I didn’t have one and I walked away. My sister gave him a dollar and as she ran to catch up to me she asked me why I didn’t give the man a dollar. I told her, “I can’t save the world. I wake up every morning at five o’clock, take a shower, get dressed, and drive on a freeway with hundreds of other crazy drivers for an hour, work an eight hour day with people who don’t appreciate what I do. I get yelled at by patients. I get yelled at by providers and my new supervisor has no idea what he’s doing or how to do it. I suspect that most of the day he sits in his office looking in the mirror singing "I feel pretty," and then I then drive home, eat, sleep, and do it all over again. If I can do it then they can do it too. I can’t save everyone.”

My sister didn’t say anything, but the look on her face and the heavy silence that surrounded us spoke plenty. I have to admit that I felt a little bad about it and if the guy had come back I would have given him a dollar at that time, maybe even two. I don’t know, maybe that is proof that there is still a little bit of hope or compassion somewhere inside me. Maybe there is still that little spark somewhere in the dark where a bright eyed kid still believes that he can do well and change the world.

********

An Update: I've moved to a new clinic and the boss here is much better, at least I don't think he sits in his office looking in the mirror singing, "I feel pretty."

When I was a kid it was real easy to impress me. My uncle would do some simple card tricks and I’d be amazed beyond belief, thinking that he had to have made a pact with the devil. How else could he do those tricks – they had to be some sort of witchery going on there. Once I saw an old man who was walking down the street. An old man walking down the street is not an event that is impressive in itself, but what he did seemed to make an impression on me that to this day I still think of and say to myself “wow, that was so cool.” As he was walking he suddenly stopped and without a care in the world took his index finger, covered one nostril and blew the biggest, wettest booger I’ve ever seen out of his other nostril. The booger was so big and fat that I could actually hear the splat sound it made as it smashed against the sidewalk. I know…impressive, right? As impressive as that sounds that was still not the most impressive thing I saw as a kid.

The most impressive thing I ever saw as a kid was something that my cousin, Burke did. His name is actually Anthony, but as long as I can remember we’ve just called him Burke. I think that’s his middle name, but I’m not sure as I’m not sure he’s not going to kick my ass for putting his first and middle name in my blog. Hey, at least I didn’t use his last name – hahaha. Burke was not the favorite grandkid in the family, that honor went to my other cousin, Rey Jr. but at the same time he wasn’t too far down on the favorite list, probably third after Ketha – who actually grew up to be everyone’s favorite, even surpassing Rey Jr. in that department. Anyway, Burke used to live in Arizona so he had a different view on life than we did, because we were all from Texas and when you’re from Texas there is nothing better than Texas. It’s true when they say that Texas is like a whole other country and if you ask any Texan they will agree that it’s God’s favorite country. How else would you explain Chicken Fried Steak, Tex-Mex cuisine and Nolan Ryan?

I know that when Burke came to visit I always felt like he was special, like the chosen Buddha successor. He was “the enlightened one” because he came from Arizona and he knew everything. I wasn’t jealous of him or anything like that, even though he was the good looking one who worked out and was so smart.

He proved just how smart he was at an early age. I remember that day as if it were a week ago. My Aunt Frances (who many years later would have to ride in my car on a wet seat) and my Uncle Joe came to visit, so we all ended up at my Grandparents house. They brought Burke along because the authorities in Arizona frown on leaving your little son alone when you go on vacation, they don’t care how smart he is. You just don’t leave a five year old alone when you go on vacation. Well for whatever reason, they brought him along and had him sit in the middle of the living room as we all gathered around him to see what he was going to do. It was exciting. I waited and waited, but all he seemed to do was look at us with a weird look in his eye. He looked away and just sat quietly for a while playing with his fingers.

My aunt spoke, setting up the show, “Burke learned how to say the days of the week in Spanish.”

And that’s when he began:

He looked up at us and stared with, “lunes.” He paused for a second, judging the reaction from the people around him. They loved it, so he continued. “Martes.” Everyone was smiling and he was eating up the attention. “Miércoles.” I had to give it to him. He knew how to work the audience. ”Jueves.” He stopped and I wondered if maybe, just maybe he had forgotten the rest of the days, but then just like saying ‘L-M-N-O-P’ in the alphabet song he said the last three days, “viernes-sábado-domingo.” He was a genius!

As he said each day in Spanish, I said the English counterpart in my mind, “Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday.” I didn’t know my days of the week in Spanish but I guessed he had said them correctly because he had mentioned seven days and my grandparents clapped at this astonishing feat.

I remember that at the time I thought it was the most amazing thing ever. I had never heard anyone say the days of the week in Spanish. I guess if I were to be honest, I was a little jealous of him at that moment because not only had he recited the days of the week in Spanish, but he had gotten the approval of my grandfather – something I felt I could never get.

He’s still a really smart guy, but I don’t feel jealously toward him anymore. I care about the guy and have come to care about him more as I’ve gotten older and wiser – hey, I can now recite the days of the week in Spanish too.

my nephew decided that he was going to try out for the talent show at school. This is him working on the song he wants to sing. Let me know what you think so far.

When I was a kid I used to throw like a girl. I blame that fact on the lack of a solid father figure while I was growing up. My dad was in the military, so he was away for most of my younger years. It seemed that he volunteered for the assignments that took him places where he couldn’t take his family. At times I used to think that maybe it was easier for him to deal with the military than to be a father, but that’s just speculation on my part because I really never knew what he was thinking.

The closet person I had to a father figure was my uncle who would tell me that he loved me every time that he got drunk. It’s good to be loved and to be told that you’re loved, but when you really thought about it, it wasn’t so great because he used to tell everyone that he loved them when he got drunk including the dog, as far as I know he still does that to this date. I’d like to think that I outgrew that throwing like a girl thing, - yeah I’m sure I have. Put it in the record - I don’t’ throw like a girl anymore! Throwing like a girl was not my only problem, I couldn’t catch anything either. When you’re a male child you want to be able to throw and catch otherwise you might as well spend your entire recess on the corner of the blacktop playing tea party with the girls. For a kid who can’t catch or throw the only fate worse than death itself is to be forced to play little league baseball - and the only thing worse than playing little league baseball when you can’t throw or catch is being on the same team as your older superstar cousin who can throw and catch.

I don’t even remember how I ended up on the little league team. All I know is that my cousin was going to sign up for baseball and somehow he convinced me to go with him and before I knew it … parental forms were signed and I was a member of the White Sox little league baseball team. From the beginning I had a feeling that the coaches were disappointed that I was on the team, but at least they had my superstar cousin so if I stayed on the bench everyone would be happy, including me.

I think the only person who in their heart really didn’t believe I sucked at baseball was my mom. She was at every single one of my games, cheering the team on, cheering me on. Once I figured out where right field was I would stand there and watch her cheer. On those rare occasions when I was allowed to bat everyone else moaned or yelled things at me, but not my mom. She would cheer me on just as loud as she would cheer my superstar cousin, maybe even louder. Now, that’s unconditional love.

If I have to be honest, I didn’t really take little league baseball too seriously. I was content to sit on the bench and pull boogers out my nose, then stick them under the bench, adding to a collection of dried nerd boogers from past little league games. As the year progressed I got better at the game. We found out that I had bad astigmatism so with the addition of thick plastic glasses I was able to actually see the ball when it came my way so I was better prepared to catch it - and for the record, I did catch it a few times.

I remember how excited and scared I was when I found out that my father was going to be coming in from overseas in a couple of weeks and would be at one of  my games. I was excited because I wanted him to see me play, but at the same time I was scared because I didn’t want him to see how bad I actually was at America’s pastime. I asked my superstar cousin for help in doing all the things a good little leaguer should know how to do, and he agreed to help me. Every day after school we would go to the park and practice - queue “Rocky” music here – my cousin and my uncle set out to help me become a better little leaguer. They would pitch the ball to me, slowly at first, and help me to correct my swing so that eventually I was able to hit the ball. I wasn’t going to hit it out of the park, but at least I was going to hit it. They spent countless hours throwing or hitting the ball to me, giving me encouraging words when I missed it and cheering loudly when I caught it. That’s when I realized that my uncle really did love me, even when he wasn’t drinking. In the end I wasn’t a great player like my cousin, but I was better than when I started and that was good enough for me.

On the day of the big game I was ready; ready to hit the ball, ready to catch the ball, and ready to win the game for my father. He was going to be so proud of me. I looked out into the crowd expecting to see my father in his military uniform sitting with my mom and little brother, his chest puffed out with pride. I saw my mom, and I saw my brother, but my dad wasn’t there. His plane must be running late, I wasn’t worried because in my heart I knew that no matter what he would be there. He had promised me he would and he never went back on his promise. I was still scared and nervous, but I had worked so hard every day after school so no matter what was to happen I was ready.

“Please coach,” I begged. “Can I bat?”

The coach was not one of those coaches you see in little league baseball movies who believes that every kid should play no matter how bad they were. He was the coach who wanted to win even if it meant keeping me and all the other bad players on the bench.

I think that on that day the coach was caught off guard by the fact that I wanted to try and hit the ball because he knew I was happy to just sit on the bench and add to the booger collection. He told me that I might be able to bat later depending on the score. I knew then that the only way I would bat would be if we were winning by so many points that the other team had no chance of catching up.

I didn’t care. I just wanted to go out and hit the ball so my dad could see me. I didn’t care if I were the last kid to bat in the game, all I cared was that I had a chance to make him proud of me.

Finally, toward the end of the game the coach called my name and told me to get ready. I would be batting next. My heart was racing and I wanted to run to the restroom. I hated myself for not going to pee before the game because now I felt the urge and it was bad.

The batter before me, his name was Morris, hit the ball out toward left field and made it to second base. I walked out to the plate and was too nervous to look over to where my mom and dad were sitting. I tried to focus on the ball and remember everything that my cousin and uncle had told me during those hours after school. It didn’t even bother me when the whole outfield took three giant steps forward when I stepped to the plate. I was going to show them.

The pitcher went through his windup and whoosh before I could even think of hitting the ball the umpire was yelling “Strike!”

I tapped the end of the bat on my shoe. I don’t know why I did it, but I’d seen a professional player do it in a game once, so I figured it could only help me. I can’t be for certain, but at that moment I thought I saw the umpire roll his eyes.

I thought about using The Force, so I tried to clear my thoughts and tune everything out except the ball.

“Strike two!” I didn’t even see the ball fly over the plate.

Apparently, The Force wasn’t strong with me.

I wanted to do something really cool, but I didn’t know what to do. The only thing I could think of doing was spitting. I don’t know why but as a kid spitting seemed really cool to me, almost as cool as covering one nostril and blowing a booger out the other. I didn’t spit because I knew that if I did all I would do was get a big, slimy loogie all over my shoes, and that would not be cool at all.

I squinted against the sunlight. This was all I needed, the sun. How was I supposed to see the ball if I was looking into the sun? it was bad enough when I could see, and so much worse when I was blinded by the sunlight. I knew then and there that God liked messing with me, how else could that be explained? I closed my eyes for just a second, just to shut out the sun, the other team’s chants of “batter can’t hit”, and the ballpark smell of hot dogs, popcorn and car exhaust, which was making my stomach feel funny. I wanted to throw up and I probably would have if it weren’t for the fact that my father was there watching me. I didn’t want him to see me throw up all over home plate.

In that second that I closed my eyes the pitcher threw the ball. I didn’t know what to do so I did the only thing that registered in my mind…I swung the bat. I didn’t see the ball, but I did hear as the ball hit against the bat and then I heard the voice of Coach Rodriquez yelling, “run! Run!"

I threw the bat and ran to first base as the other team members just stood there transfixed by the ball as it bounced twice then rolled out into left field. Morris ran to third base and I ran to second. I’d like to say that I ran all the way home, but things don’t always turn out perfect in real life like they do in the movies. I never made it home. We were struck out and all I got to was second base, even so, it didn’t matter because I had hit the ball and in the end we won the game. As we left the dugout all the other team members ran to the concession stand where the coach bought us each a snow cone. I ran the other way toward the spectator stands to find my mom and dad.

Coach Rodriquez stopped me before I got too far. “You did a good job out there,” he put his hand on my shoulder. “Here I want you to have this” He handed me a dirty, old baseball. I turned it around in my hand looking at it, not knowing what to do or say. No one had ever given me an old dirty, baseball before. Coach Rodriquez smiled and said. “It’s your ball, the ball you hit out to left field.”

I smiled a big cheesy smile. I know that if I could have seen the smile on my face at that time I would have smiled even harder because when I see someone with a big smile on their face it makes me happy. I don’t know why it does. I think it’s because I get the feeling that they’re happy and their happiness makes me happy. One time I saw an old man walking out of the Mexican bakery with a white bag full of sweet bread. He had this big ol’ cheesy smile on his face and watching him made me smile. He was happy with his sweet bread and I was happy for him. I ran past the other kids who were running the other way toward the snow-cone stand. I ran, with the ball in my hand, and the big cheesy smile on my face toward my mom and dad. I held the ball up in the air, a trophy of all that I worked for, all that I was proud of, all that my father had come to see.

“Daddy,” I yelled. “I got this for you. Are you proud of me? I hit the ball”

My mom went to her knees and hugged me. I remember that as she hugged me, my baseball cap fell off  my head and the wind blew through my hair. “I’m so proud of you.” She had the same cheesy smile on her face as I did. “You were so good.” I hugged my mom, but quickly pulled away from her. I wanted to show my dad the baseball and share with him everything that it represented to me.

I looked around for my dad, but didn’t see him. When I looked at my mom something in her eyes confirmed what I was trying so hard to hide. “I’m sorry.” She began. “Your father couldn’t make it for your game.”

I know she said more, but I didn’t hear anything else she said after that. I let the ball drop to the ground then turned around and slowly walked away, dragging my feet and kicking up dirt as I walked to the car. I turned and watched my cousin as he ate his snow-cone and excitedly told his dad about the homerun he hit during the game. I watched as my uncle put his arm around my cousin’s shoulders and started to walk to their car. I know that if I had run up to him he would have put his other arm around me and told me how proud he was about my accomplishments, but somehow, I knew that just wouldn’t be the same.

Recently we moved to a brand new, built from the ground up, clinic. It’s a state of the art building, and has almost everything you could ever want in a clinic. The only thing that is not new is that fact that people are still going into the refrigerator and eating other people’s lunch. It was soon after we moved into the new building that someone went in and ate my leftover pizza that I had brought in for lunch.

The stealing of the lunches doesn't end there. The other day I walked in the break room and I saw the following note:

 

As I read the note I wondered if someone had actually thrown away the cheese and crackers or had they been eaten by the same scoundrel that had eatten my pizza. I wasn’t the only one who suspected foul play in the disappearance of the cheese and crackers. My friend Charlene made a list of suspects and is narrowing it down as we speak – this is a short note to the thief “We will find out who you are and you will pay. Damn you, you will pay for eating my pizza!”

It seems that this case of missing crackers and cheese has become the talk of the clinic. One of my co-workers, George, even sent me this message:

The Case of The Missing Cheese and Crackers:
Records 1 to 1

Record ID  15986

Incident Date: December 29, 2011   Time: 9:44:00 PM  Division: SE Shift III

Title: Theft                                                             Location:  Boulder Highway

Summary:

On 12/29/11 at approximately 9:44 PM officers were dispatched to the break room at the South Boulder Highway location... The suspect obtained an undisclosed amount of Cheese and Crackers before fleeing to a vehicle in the north parking lot.

The suspect's vehicle was described driving a  silver Honda, possibly a hatchback, older model.

The suspect was described as a male in his twenties wearing a gray or white sweatshirt. He had a mustache, and a thin build.

Adults Arrested:

None ; Will consider this a “Cold Case “if not solved- Assigned special agent Puente to further assist

Media Contact Name and Phone Number:      Lt. Baez     555-7270

_________________

Well, it seems that George has a bit of a sense of humor when it comes to another person's missing crackers and chesse. He's actually a pretty funny guy and you can find him posting all kinds of stuff on his facebook page.

I don't think we'll ever find out who actually ate the cheese and crackers - I don't think we'll ever find out whose cheese and crackers they were either. I guess that's just life - sometimes you eat the cheese and crackers; sometimes you get your chesse and crackers eaten.