Mile Gazillion of the Covid-athon
When I run, I play a little movie in my mind. Here’s the scene: I’m running the Olympic marathon, and I’m winning. I’m on the last mile or two, way ahead of the person in second place. I see the stadium growing larger with every step. Crowds of people are along the route, yelling for me, and I run with energy, with power. I don’t drag myself . . .
2708
Ben held his drill to the mark in the siding where he was planning on attaching the first number, and he said to Charlie, who was holding a toy drill three feet below him, “Ok, it’s going to get loud.” He pulled the trigger on the drill and watched as drill dust rained down on his son Charlie.
Charlie asked, “What is that, Daddy?”
. . .Baby Pool
“Can we help you carry this to your truck?” the clerk asked Ben after he paid $19.95 for the baby pool.
“No,” Ben said. “I’m gonna carry it.”
“You alright getting it to your truck, alone?’
“I don’t have a truck. I’m just going to carry it.”
“Carry it where?”
“Home,” Ben said, as he nudged the door . . .
The Mega-Burrito Late Night Jog
Muncie Noir
(I started with the idea of a moody noir story of a guy who runs at night, but I ended with this. So--well--apologies in advance, I guess.)
Steve’s grandpa used to say, on days like this, that the air hangs on you like a fart in a hot elevator. Steve laughs, hearing his grandpa’s voice in his head, but he couldn’t help but think of a . . .
Chalk Drawings
In March or April, if you tried to buy toilet paper, yeast, and sanitizer you probably found an empty shelf in the store. The COVID-19 quarantine sent people into a panic over these things, and they disappeared from stores. There’s another hard-to-find quarantine item that you wouldn’t guess: sidewalk chalk. If you tried to buy sidewalk chalk . . .
In Praise of Nacho Libre
I’m 48 years old, knocking on the door of 49, and I regularly reflect, throughout each day, on the story of Nacho Libre. Ancient cultures had myths and legends, stories of epic adventures and divine guidance to give their lives meaning, and I find direction from a 14-year-old movie of a monastic brother who moonlights as a luchador. I get it; . . .
Mr. Rogers for President
For Elaine, who prayed for me to keep writing
(I started writing this a couple weeks ago, before the COVID-19 news really ramped up. We're thinking about different things right now, but I thought I'd still share it)
When I saw the video of a child teaching Mr. Rogers the wave, a basic breakdancing move from the ’80s and Fred Rogers does the move with the fluidity of . . .