No Candy for You

 

(I caught a cold.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 6 a.m. and drank a cup of freshly brewed coffee. Then I read the headlines on my smartphone while taking a nasty shit. An elementary school rugrat from the city of Pyeongtaek was sitting in the playground of his apartment complex eating a cup of noodles when he was confronted by an angry teenager. The teen removed a box cutter from his pocket and stabbed the poor child right in the neck. The victim began bleeding excessively and was taken to a local hospital. Meanwhile, the perpetrator of this crime is staring down the barrel of an attempted-murder charge.

I ate hash browns for breakfast as I watched a few YouTube videos. Mac Jones, the quarterback for the New England Patriots, is supposedly on the trading block for pissing off Coach Bill Belichick. The Patriots had a terrible season offensively which prompted Jones to seek help from the staff of his alma mater Alabama. Mac actually won a national championship while playing for the Crimson Tide. Anyway, Belichick was none too pleased. He thinks that the player went behind his back and badmouthed the offensive coordinator to outsiders. In Bill’s head, it’s an issue of loyalty.

I drove to work with Rice-Boy Larry, and I spoke to my mother using Facebook Messenger as we cruised down the highway.

I said, “How’s Juan doing?”

She said, “Not so good. He fell down this morning when he was walking with the dogs. He really messed up his knee.”

“Damn. He’s got to be more careful. Old folk are too fragile to take spills.”

“I know, but what can you do? Shit happens.

My stepfather is an octogenarian. He’s in great shape for his advanced years, but 84 is 84. Those bones become brittle over time. His accident brought Kurt Vonnegut to mind.

I said, “My favorite writer was in his 80s when he died. He was climbing a ladder at his home and fell off the fucking thing. He croaked a couple weeks later due to brain injuries.”

“Are you rambling on about Kurt Vonnegut again? Wasn’t he suicidal to begin with?”

I shrugged. “What does that have to do with the price of tea in China? His injuries weren’t self-inflicted.”

“Well, we all get what we want in the end.”

“That sounds like fortune-cookie bullshit.”

Mom changed the subject. “How’s your wife.”

“She’s OK. She’s still crazy, but she’s not nearly as bad as she was when we were living in China.”

Which is true. The Dragon Lady once chased me through our luxury apartment with a meat cleaver back in our Beijing days. It was scary stuff.

Mom said, “Is she mellowing in her old age?”

“I think it’s more about the kids. Nurse Ken and Rice-Boy Larry have gotten older. So nobody really fucking cares about her opinions and her temper tantrums anymore. She reminds me of Fortunato in The Cask of Amontillado. The woman has finally accepted her fate, but occasionally rattles her chains from time to time.”

“That’s very poetic.”

Mom can be a smart ass from time to time.

My day at work went well. I’m currently enjoying The Gift of the Magi with my high schoolers. And it’s really hitting the spot. We all needed O. Henry’s optimism after the ordeal of The Tell-Tale Heart. Reading The Magi feels like taking a spiritual shower.

Sadly, however, I’m in the process of catching a cold. My throat is now scratchy and clear-colored snot is perpetually streaming out of my nose. I caught the disease from one of my students when he sneezed in my proximity. So I removed two Dojo points from his total as punishment. No candy for him.