Thursday, October 16, 2014

Wanna Get High?

     On a warm spring night the parking lot of our baseball field is crowded with people walking down to the pool; with no tattoos and at least forty percent of my body covered in clothing, I feel dowdy and old, a ragged billboard flashing Spill Milk on Me!  Tell Me You're Hungry!  Give Me Something to Wash!  I've dropped off my boys and their baseball gear, have parked a few acres south and am making my way back to the field with my chair, my sewing bag full of small blue jeans with blown-out knees, my two panting Australian Shepherds, my insulated cooler bag full of snacks and water for my kids and extra water in case any of their teammates forgot to bring water, which someone always does.  Sherpa for Hire!  Responds Well to Employers Under Twelve! 
     "Hey," I hear from a bearded young guy sitting in the deep shade of a live oak.  "Wanna get high?" 
     A weird little vibe runs from his shade to my sunlight and I don't have to think at all about whether he's talking to me or someone else.  I don't say, "No thanks," nor do I say, "I'm on the Board of this Little League and I suggest you and your drugs move along before I call the cops!"  Nor do I sic my Aussies on him, "sic" meaning they would tear over to the dude, cover him in dog spit and so many colors of fur that there is no clothing combination on the planet immune from the ravages of said fur.  Instead I elevate my Dallas-bred nose just a bit and keep walking with a quicker, happier step.
     Because I'm already high. 
     I don't feel like a dowdy tattoo-less Sherpa any more.  I feel the sense of purpose that having a family gives.  I feel the glory of being the food-provider, the one who makes little people half-close their eyes and say, "That was sooooo good," the one who makes the man of the house say, "Mmmmmm."  I feel the high of a forever marriage.  I feel the buzz of a garden crammed with green tomatoes on the fast-track to red.  I remember that I love baseball, that I admire the way those ten-year-olds zip the ball around the field.  I feel the buoyant joy of good health.  And this: I have a lot of things to do.  I don't want to do some of them, but I'll take the most tedious one on the list over sitting on the ground in a city park chasing a flimsy buzz.
     Thanks for asking, Mister.  I needed that.

No comments:

Post a Comment