almost okay

My Dear Lyzako,

Life. It sure is a funny thing. And by funny, I do mean strange. It can be downright hilarious, too, of course, but sometimes in order to laugh at life, one must cultivate a particularly twisted sense of humor as pertains to it. As luck would have it, this past weekend provided me with several contrasting experiences that illustrated life's strangeness, both laughable and otherwise, which have left me wondering if I have enough of a sense of humor to make it through to the end.

It also gave me something to write about.

First off, we had a glorious summer day here in Michigan on Saturday. My morning walk took me towards the city offices and through the park, where several groups were planning picnics for later in the afternoon. Even though it was before nine o'clock, the early birds had already begun staking their claims to shady areas by covering the picnic tables with colorful paper tablecloths and posting signs to identify the groups. One inventive person had even used some of that yellow 'CAUTION' tape, wrapping it around the trunks of a stand of trees that surrounded a handful of tables on the far west side of the park.

As the cicadas trilled high in the oaks, smooth jazz played on portable stereos and charcoal was being lit in preparation for a low and slow fire for the ribs that would be served for lunch. Upon passing a pair of fifty-five gallon drum smokers trucked in for one church group's picnic, I encountered an older gentleman power-walking towards me and perspiring profusely. “I think I'll just go over there and sit down until that stuff is ready,” he said after catching a whiff of the charcoal.

I chuckled and said: “You'll probably be waiting a while, but it's a perfect day for it.” And it was.

Saturday evening I attended the Tigers/Orioles game at Comerica Park with an old buddy from high school. Our perfect summer day had slowly evolved into a perfect night for baseball - eighty degrees and sunny at game time with a cool breeze blowing in out of the west.

We sat twelve rows up behind the Tigers' on-deck circle surrounded by families with annoying children. Still they were the best seats I'd ever had and I enjoyed the game immensely, despite the fact that several of the fidgety young ones behind me kicked at the seat backs and one very cute but evil six-year-old girl sitting in front of me held up a tiny 'Go Tigers!' sign made from a sheet of typing paper being sure to completely block my view of the batter as she did so. I know it was intentional because prior to holding the sign up she looked right at me with that glint in her eye that let me know if I were a turtle, she'd turn me on my back and see how long it took me to die.

Four beers helped me forget the evil little girl and the Tigers won 5-3. As we crossed Woodward heading back to the car, fireworks shot up over the stadium against the night sky, a full moon hanging like a silver disk in the background. Suddenly I remembered a scene on the way in as we approached the ball park, one that had made me wince upon seeing it.

We were trailing a group of jersey- and ball-cap-clad couples up the crowded sidewalk before the game, one woman with astonishingly flawless legs, her bronzed flesh on display from instep to crotch thanks to a pair of heeled sandals and some extremely short shorts. Back in the day we called them 'hot pants', and hers truly were. I couldn't take my eyes off of her until I heard one obnoxious member of their group drunkenly yell: “Take my picture with the bum!”

The next thing I knew my buddy and I had overtaken the group as they all stopped to pose, their arms draped over the shoulders of a toothless, unshaven black man who laughed and smiled right along with the white suburbanites, hoping to panhandle a couple of bucks out of them in exchange for his humiliation. I heard the photographer say something like, “You're bad” to the guy who had originally suggested the photo-op, but other than that they all just laughed as though bums were put on this earth for their personal amusement.

Sunday was a good day, too. Prior to coming home and grilling some chicken wings and sausages, I had stopped at BW3 for my usual. They had the front open to the street and passersby were soaking up the final hours of the Dream Cruise which had taken place the day before. The room was comfortably uncrowded and I took some pleasure in watching the end of the Tigers' afternoon game on the big screen in between glimpses outside.

I had just become pleasantly fuzzy when a handful of loud folks crossed Nine Mile and caught my attention. There were three adults, two men and a pear-shaped woman, along with a chubby pre-teen girl with straight red hair. The woman was pushing a modified stroller containing one of the adults, his body twisted and robbed of control by what appeared to be cerebral palsy.

The pear-shaped woman had got the stroller stuck on the curb and was yelling at the other man to help her with it as the handicapped guy wriggled and waved soundlessly in front of her. Her companion (I assumed it was her husband) seemed perturbed at having to deal with the situation, and instead of just helping her push, he reached in and casually lifted the guy with palsy up until the woman was able to get the stroller off the curb, then callously dumped the guy with a bounce back into the stroller, complaining the entire time as they passed out of sight.

From beginning to end the event took no more than two seconds, but witnessing that man casually treat another human being like he was a sack of groceries made me think of the bum and the suburbanites from the previous night and it was all I could do to get my thoughts back to the positive side. I suppose I could have found some humor in both scenes had I allowed it, but I just couldn't. It took three more tall Blues plus quite a few more here at home to forget about the cold, cruel world and how truly funny life can be.

By the way, the Tigers lost the afternoon game 16-8. At least we picked the right one to attend.

All My Best to You and Yours,
Marty Sherman