notes on the world

The Illegal Marathon

I joined a marathon, and I stole their Gatorade. I felt bad, because we ran past a church, but not too bad, because ran past pretty quickly. It happened like this:

I went for a run because it was the summer I needed to look like I knew it was the summer whenever I was near a beach or a lake or a swimming pool. I went out on my usual route, down past the tennis courts with their faded green lines and limp green nets, past the sidewalks where girls and women would sometimes run with their dogs or their strollers, over to the Coca Cola plant with its two huge water tanks painted to look like tremendous cans of Coke. And it was there, where the road curved up toward the rock quarry, that I found the marathon.

They came around the corner strung out like a thin line of ants, one after the other after the other, like a chain stretched to the breaking point. There were men in orange and black, bald, with numbers taped to their chests; there were women in blue and grey, not bald, numbers taped to their sides. They were running in the street because there were no cars and because they were so tired they no longer cared. They were sweating and panting and grimacing as they worked for each step.

I fell in among them. I ran off of my sidewalk and across the street and I fell into that line with three men ahead of me, spaced out by ten yards each, and another group further back. I took the end of our little cluster so that they wouldn’t see me even though they had to have seen me coming.

A strange thing happened, then: my pace quickened. Their pace, running, was faster than my pace, jogging. So I lengthened my stride and I took deeper breaths and I matched them. I fixed my posture, standing up straighter. I wiped away the sweat as if I’d been running for more than five minutes and I grinned. I grinned widely, my teeth feeling the air, and I ran along with them.

There was a station with a table covered in cups; two little girls and two men where handing out the cups as people went past. We neared it, and I knew I didn’t have a number taped to my chest or my side. “Gatorade?” one of them said, and held out a paper cup, a cup with the name of a restaurant on the side but filled with orange water. “We’re the Gatorade men.”

I took their Gatorade.

I was a deceitful runner.

I was an illegal marathoner.

I ran with them for as long as their path intercepted mine: the whole length of the Coke plant and all the way to the corner where three roads came together in a sloppy bit of planning that was begging for an accident. I ran with them that far, feeling I was a part of them. I even looked back, once, thinking of Steve Prefontaine and the famous photograph where he is looking back and there is no one behind him because he is so far ahead. But there were people behind me, far back, getting Gatorade from the station.

And then our paths split, at that intersection, at that web of roads.

I ran back across the street, out of the line, and turned around. My house was the other way, after all, and there was no way to fake that. I got back on my sidewalk and ran the other direction, alone. I looked down, as I went, so I wouldn’t have to look at the eyes of the other runners, that steady stream of them who were still coming around the corner and running in the street. I looked down so I wouldn’t have to see their inquisitive glances, their sharp, confused, accusing eyes. I looked down at my feet, running slower again, and watched the sidewalk.

And how like life that was, I thought, that all our lies found us out after all.

Eat 'Em Up Tigers

I went to a baseball game yesterday: Tigers hosting the Cubs in Detroit. To spoil the surprise, the Tigers won, 5-3. It was their sixth win in a row, second in a row over the Cubbies, and there was a lot of cheering.

Going to a Tigers’ game has been something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. It’s so, for lack of a better word, American. It’s something that I think of right along with Coca-Cola and Chevy, the Fourth of July and fireworks. Growing up in the Upper Peninsula, I was always too far away. I’m on the wrong side of the state, now, but it’s so much closer.

Walking into the park was awesome. I’ve been to sporting events before, so I had some idea what to expect—a Cleveland Browns’ game, a Detroit Red Wings’ game, a St. Louis Cardinals’ game—but I loved it anyway. I loved that everyone had baseball jerseys on, that the little kids in front of me had foam tiger claws that they were trying to grab each other with, and that the beer cost 8.25.

Well, maybe not that.

But I had one anyway, to get in the spirit. It was lukewarm but the day was so hot—perfect for baseball once the sun dipped down behind the skyline and the lights turned the field into a bright wash of green and brown with flecks of white—and it tasted great. And, at the same time that I had the beer, I fulfilled one of my lifelong goals.

I ate a hot dog.

Never mind that I forgot to put on the ketchup and mustard, because I’d never done it before and I didn’t know where they were. Never mind that I didn’t have a plate to eat it on. Never mind that I’d just had hot dogs, before that, for dinner at my friend Nina’s house. Never mind all of that, because I was living out a dream.

It might not be the most impressive of accomplishments, but think about what it really is: I’ve had this desire to go to a game, something that I feel connects with our past (see: The Sandlot) and our people and our culture, and the thing that I always think of about one second after thinking about baseball is a hot dog.

Not steroids.

Not home run records with asterisks.

Not pitchers who cheat and players who lie about their age to get in.

Baseball has taken a bashing in the public eye as of late, and deservedly so. There have been a lot of less-than-admirable things going on. But I say, in the spirit of summer and in the spirit of childhood and in the spirit of something great that America really has created, we put all that behind us. We have to fight it down, of course, to fix the sport, but we don’t have to dwell on it. We don’t have to let it be the only thing on television, the only thing in the sports section. We should, instead, remember and embrace what the game really is.

Because as I was sitting in those stands, eatting a hot dog, watching the sun set over the Detroit streets, turning even those streets into something beautiful with the light coming off the buildings and the people walking way down below and the fireworks going off over the river, I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else.

Next time, though, I’ll try to sneak in some ice for the beer.

Five For Fighting

If there’s one thing America loves, it is competition. It may be that our capitalist system, which pits businessman against businessman on a day-to-day basis, has bred this desire to defeat, to be better than. It may be that this desire, actually, has bred capitalism. No matter which way things went, though, the undeniable truth is that Americans have a love for anything and everything that allows them to prove their worth. To prove themselves by beating someone else, man against man or woman against woman.

This, also, is an aspect of history. It is not just an American phenomenon, something we’ve invented. The Romans had their gladiators, of course, and the Native Americans had their ceremonial competitions: foot races, horse races, and the like.  In Marostica, the people used to play huge games of chess using other people. The Spartans lived in a whole society in which defeating someone else was the goal, the ideal—in fact, the only thing that mattered.

This spirit has survived in America. Tonight, The Best Hockey Team in the World will play against the Chicago Blackhawks in a clinching game of the Western Conference Finals. When they win, it will be on to the Stanley Cup Finals, a rematch against the Pittsburg Penguins—who The Best Hockey Team in the World (the Detroit Red Wings, for those unfamiliar with the sport) beat last season.

This is the defining moment for the Red Wings. They have the opponent on the ropes (Detroit leads the best-of-seven series, 3-1) and they just have to finish them for a chance to win it all (and by “chance”, of course don’t mean “chance” at all, since the loss of the Cup is out of the question).

So, you may think, this is the big thing in America. This is what everyone is talking about. The streets must be full of people wearing Red Wings’ jerseys; there must be highlights on every television. The bars must have lines outside, just for this game, from early on in the afternoon.

Sadly, this is not the case.

I don’t think the problem is that people don’t like ice hockey. I don’t think the problem is that the sense of competition in America is fading. I don’t even think that the problem is that people are too busy to watch seven games, four rounds, before the finals. All of those cases could be made, but I really don’t think any of them get to the heart of the problem. Which, you know, is this: there is just so much competition in America.

Last night, Lebron James and the Cleveland Cavaliers lost in an epic game against the Orlando Magic, the fourth game in a row that has been, to keep using the cliché, epic. Today, Manchester United is playing FC Barcelona in the Champions League Final (no, that game is not in America, but it is all over the television). Tonight, superstar Kobe Bryant clashes with the Denver Nuggets and their new leader, Chauncey Billups, in the other half of the NBA playoffs. Then, tomorrow, it’s back to that Cleveland/Orlando series, to see if the Cavs can pull off the upset.

You can kill quite a lot of time watching all of this, you know. And consume quite a lot of quite cheap beer.

They say that entertainment is the number one industry in America. We are a culture that loves to be, that expects to be, enthralled with everything. We want to have some sort of event happening in front of us, or at least to have one coming up, taking over a whole week with its coming, the way the Superbowl does every winter. This isn’t to say that ice hockey is better than basketball, or that football is better than fútbol, or anything of the sort. But it is interesting that, instead of picking one of those, we seem to have picked them all.

Dimes Too Dollars

I tried to get a job last week. The economy isn’t so hot and there aren’t so many jobs to be had, but I figured it wouldn’t be a problem. There is a hardware store up the street; I worked at a hardware store in high school. Perfect, I thought.

I should have been warned. I don’t know who should have done the warning, but someone should have. Maybe the Career Services people at my college should have put out an all-points bulletin. Maybe the Detroit Free Press should have run a special called: “Don’t Try To Work Here; Really, Don’t”. Maybe the ancient gods should have sent me a dream with an encoded message, a dream about starvation and death in the fabled land of Hardware.

Or maybe, just maybe, I should have been warned myself. You see, the hardware store is called “Dime Too Dollars”.

Dimes Too Dollars.

All right, let’s look at this for a moment. There are many ways to do so, but let’s start with this one: it sounds like a pawn shop. It sounds like somewhere that someone named Vinny would work, where he’d lurk in the back in a dimly-lit room smoking a cigar. He’d have his elbows up on the edge of the table and he’d be shuffling a deck of cards, slowly.

“So,” he’d say when you came in. “I hear you have a problem.” He’d bite the words out, not looking up at you.

“Yes,” you’d say, unnerved. “I, ah…well, my garbage disposal won’t work.”

Vinny would swear and nod very slowly, methodically. “The garbage disposal.”

“Yes,” you’d say again.

“They’re always causing problems,” Vinny would say. He’d set his cigar down. “How long has this been going on?”

“Ah, just for a few days,” you’d say. You’d decide not to tell him how you tried to dispose of all those chicken bones by shoving them down the chute with the handle of an old wooden spoon after Thanksgiving.

“Too long,” Vinny would say. His voice would be a rasp. “You can’t let them get a foothold, you know? They never stop. They never give up.”

“Um,” you’d say.

And Vinny would stand up, suddenly. Another man would come out of the shadows and put Vinny’s coat over his shoulders. Then he’d take Vinny’s cigar and hand him, in replacement, a Tommy Gun. Vinny would snarl and finally meet your eyes. “Let’s go have a talk with this garbage disposal,” he’d say.

Not what you’d expect from a hardware. And maybe, if Vinny wasn’t in the mob, he’d just offer to take the disposal off your hands for fifty bucks, which he’d tell you was a great deal since it was junk. Then he’d fix it and turn around and sell it to your neighbor for two hundred, good as new.

Now, the second warning. I’m sure you’ve caught it by now: Dimes Too Dollars.

Too.

I was amazed; I really was. Because what does that sign say? I imagine it was meant to imply that you could bring in dimes and get dollars’ worth of product. It was meant to show that the store had great deals. But it doesn’t say that. Nope. What it says is this: if you bring in some dimes, the cashier is going to look at you and shake his head.

“Can’t take ‘em,” he’s going to say. “These here dimes are too much like dollars.”

Or, perhaps, the sign is simply meant to promote equality and awareness. It is a public service. It is there to show that there are dimes too, not just dollars. It is there to show that there is still metal currency that has been minted expertly in a factory, not just paper currency that has been cheaply run off a mill.

All told, I didn’t get the job. Looking at it now, I’m glad. I wouldn’t want to work in someplace where they both didn’t understand the English language and where they wanted to shoot up your kitchen at the slightest provocation. That would just be too dangerous a combination for me to feel comfortable.

For Whom The Train Cometh

They say that soldiers, in the heat of battle, value the safety of their friends over their lives. They say that firemen, storming into a burning building with masks in place and smoke all around, value saving others over their lives. They say that policemen, when they crouch down behind their cars around an hostage-filled bank, value getting those hostages out over getting home alive. They put themselves on the line because they know there are bigger things, more important things. They risk it all for something they think is worth it. A cause worth dying for.

What I never thought was that Americans, on their way to Jimmy John’s, would value getting a sub—so cheap they’ll freak, no doubt—over their lives.

What I mean is this: I am walking home, as I am prone to do because I love the environment (this is code for “I am too poor to buy a car, and feet are free”), and I have to cross the railroad tracks.  Now, you see, I have a disproportionate fear of trains. They are so fast. They are made of metal. They can’t be stopped for miles. They are made of metal. Metal. Metal that can crush me, car or not. So as I’m walking up to the tracks, a nightmare breaks out in the middle of the day.

The bells start going. The lights start flashing. Somewhere close by, a large train made of metal is coming to run me down.

I’m not there yet; I still have a hundred yards to go. So I keep walking, expecting the train to show up and expecting to be stuck waiting for it while it blows its horn eighty-seven thousand times. But, I’m getting closer and closer. Still the bells, still the lights, but no train.

Now I’m suspicious. Surely it’s waiting. It knows I need to cross the tracks, to get home, and it’s waiting to pounce like a Bengal tiger. Waiting to run me down, as all trains are doing everywhere, on the off chance that I’ll show up. So I get to the edge of the tracks, and I stop. I lean forward. I look down those thin metal bars, disappearing off into the distance.

There is no train. The bells and lights have been going for a good three or four minutes now, and there is no train. But still I wait, because it must be coming. It must be.

Then, to my horror, cars start driving again. They edge up, and I see the drivers doing just what I’m doing: leaning forward to peer down the tracks. What they’re forgetting, of course, is that the noses of their cars are already over the edge. That if the train comes they’ll be ripped in half. But then, after a hesitation to look, the cars drive across the tracks.

I’m practically comatose with vicarious fear; I’m drooling like a lunatic down the front of my shirt and my teeth are chattering. Why would they test fate this way? Why would they tempt the gods! I don’t know, but I’m crouching in the dirt, muttering Hail Marys to keep them safe and watching as more and more cars edge up to the tracks, linger for a moment, and then hurry across. And still, no train.

Because it’s waiting for me.

It is like a horror movie in real life, like watching Saw Twenty-Five in an empty theater, alone, where there is something like laughter coming from the dark corners of the projectionist’s booth and you’re thinking that maybe those doors locked after you came in.

Terrifying, I tell you.

I will say this: eventually, after praying to Buddha and Shiva and Bruce Willis, I ran across the tracks. I scampered, like a squirrel in front of a dog kennel filled with Dobermans. That was the worst of it all, but I made it. I made it and the train didn’t come. I walked three blocks, and the train didn’t come. I walked all the way to the corner where I had to turn to get home, and I looked back. Still, no train. Still, bells and lights.

Still, people driving across the tracks, tempting that metal beast that I knew was just crouching, waiting for the right moment.

so, here we are

Well, hello.

This is, of sorts, an introduction. And more, though I’m yet sure what all it will be. Or what all it needs to be. I’ve never started one of these before, and I’m nothing without experience. But usually that’s for the best. I just sort of plow ahead and hope things work out and cry and swear when they don’t. Not the best tactic for a many things—brain surgery, sex, work at a nuclear power plant—but fairly good for an internet blog. Odds are, no one will see this. And, while everything on the internet can technically not be deleted, it can at least be somewhat deleted, enough that the common man (i.e.: someone smarter and more computer savvy than me) cannot find it again.

I’m counting on that, anyway.

I guess the best way to start is with the name. I’ve been doing that for twenty-three years and it hasn’t failed yet. So the name of this blog, this column, if you will, is notes on the world.

First, you may be wondering why it isn’t capitalized. You may be telling yourself that I must have taken some artistic license, that it must be poetic or modern or some other thing that sounds very good if you begin talking about it at one of those parties where no one eats meat and everyone is holding a small glass of wine and someone somewhere is talking very loudly about the book they are writing or, at least, are about to start writing.

You’d be wrong.

The real reason is this: I don’t know how to capitalize it. The rules for titles are elusive. I study them and study them and then, when I need them, they are gone. They are like rent checks or quarters for parking meters. It’s very sad, and I thought about winging it and hoping for the best (you can do this with rent checks and parking meters as well, but you’re likely to come back to find either your house or your car no longer belongs to you), but decided not to. I decided to take the way out where people would thing I was artsy and where someone might offer me a small glass of wine and then we could talk about the book I’m writing. Or, going to write. One of these days.

The idea of this column, however, is not a trick. Or a lie. Or deceitful. Or whatever you’d like to call it. It will be (is?) a series of notes on the world that is all around us. When I was trying to think of what I should write about, I realized that there is enough out there to fill a whole library. I could write this whole column about one day and have enough material for a year. There is just so much going on. For instance, I’m at work at the library and this man just came up to me to rent some headphones, and he was so jumpy I thought he was going to cut and run as soon as I gave him his ID card back. Why? I don’t know, but it’s weird, isn’t it?

And if my own day doesn’t give me enough inspiration, I have no doubt someone else’s day will. Yesterday, for instance, a woman was shot in the head, right in the forehead. The bullet went through the skull, between the lobes of her brain like a train through a tunnel (I was going to say a bullet train but the pun was too horrible and I couldn’t bring myself to do it), and came out the back of her head. All without damaging the brain. She was awake and coherent and offered the deputy tea when he arrived.

The world is a strange and wonderful place. It is beautiful and tragic and hilarious and, above all, quite interesting. It deserves more than notes, but that’s all I can give it for the moment.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve just been handed that glass of wine.