The NFC and AFC Championship Games have been a tradition for me for at least 35 years. I would sit comfortably at a friend’s place, local bar, or just at home, and take in the contests to see who would represent their respective conferences in the Super Bowl. Note: Fuck calling it “The Big Game” or some other such nonsense. To the NFL, I’m promoting YOUR Showcase. But if you’d like to sue me for millions, please direct all paperwork to Motel 6’s corporate office and I’m sure they’ll forward it to whatever location I’m calling “home” this month. I’d always preferred the Conference Championship games to the Super Bowl, mostly because I like watching 2 games during the day, but more importantly because I hate the feeling of not being able to take a leak for 6 hours, fearing I’ll miss a tap dancing iguana telling me about the importance of diversity in my investment portfolio. Yeah lizard guy, I get it. As soon as I finish off the cold-as-shit pizza from yesterday I’ll turn my attention to whether I should buy a few more shares of GE.
Sunday my tradition hit the pause button, at least for this year. I needed to work, and work hard. A few hours delivering food in the morning, eat, a few hours midday, nap, and a few more hours in the evening had replaced my normal slovenly underwear/gym shorts pose in front of the big screen. And believe me, sometimes my friends would be most uncomfortable when I’d show up to their Conference Championship party in my underwear. I digress…I took a lot of things like that for granted back when I had a normal life. No longer.
So instead of watching the games, the best I could do was to log into my phone and click for updates. I missed perhaps the best 2 championship games ever. Both were overtime thrillers. One had a controversial ending (Saints vs. Rams), while the other featured a shootout between two of the NFL’s best quarterbacks, representing the future against a legend (Chiefs vs. Patriots). As I watched the scoreboard update every 30 seconds, I cursed my current situation. I realized I couldn’t even take a few moments to relax and enjoy life. I was reminded once again that I wasn’t living, merely existing. I was an amoeba in a petri dish, perhaps being observed; a single-celled organism with zero chance of getting another amoeba to join me in what could be a mind-blowing 3 seconds of amoeba sex. Other organisms can talk all they want…amoeba pussy is unbeatable.
The deliveries were constant but maddening slow. Long lines at the restaurants for pickups, and long waits for the customers to come get their food once I arrived. A few times they actually seemed pissed that my arrival wasn’t during a timeout. So while I sat outside freezing my homeless ass off, they waited until a commercial to run outside, snatch their food, and hustle back. “Oh, no time to tip. I’ll catch you next time.” In this day and age of tipping through the app, that’s a convenient excuse for stiffing. Note: “I tipped you on the app” has risen up the ranks to the second biggest lie told, lagging only behind the all-time leader, “I’ll let you know you before I cum”. I never understood not tipping someone in a tip-dependent industry. Even when I was a 20-something student fresh out of college (dropout, not graduate), I knew the importance of a tip. Regardless, the money I made Sunday turned out to be less than a typical Sunday. And I missed the goddamn games on top of it. But I’ll keep scratching and clawing, like a zombie trying to escape the grave in a George Romero movie so it can dine on a sumptuous cosmetics clerk. There isn’t time to sulk, because sulking won’t stop the bills. What keeps me going is the thought, the hope, this will somehow turn around; that the pendulum of fortune (worst Pat Sajak game show ever) will swing back and life will be enjoyable again.
I wanted to give you an update or two on some previous posts. In A Homeless Encounter the crazy dude with the guitar who screamed at me incessantly for no reason, has disappeared. It’s unknown whether he met some strange fate, moved, or was 86’ed by Starbucks, but I haven’t seen him since the tirade. I’m relatively sure he won’t return one day with a golden tan announcing how great Miami was. Good riddance. I have empathy/sympathy for helpless sorts (see below) but I don’t have time for crazy.
From Moving Day, I really don’t know the whereabouts of the elderly lady who sat an entire day in the cold and rain. I do know she’s not at the motel. I’m still unsure if someone helped her move her belongings or if they were looted. If you think of the homeless you regularly see, this is most commonly the case. You see them daily, almost always at or near the same spot at the same time. Then one day…poof, gone. Before I was homeless myself I never gave it a second thought. It might be a month before I realized, “Ya know? I haven’t seen that limping dude with the tambourine lately. I wonder what happened to him?” I bet for most of you it’s the same. It’s easy to mentally discount what is unpleasant. But now I notice and I wonder, and it doesn’t take a month.