Thursday, January 1

SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE IN HARRISBURG, PA.

I got into a less than spirited political discussion at The Spot greasy spoon on Second Street in Harrisburg last Saturday night ordering two Spot dogs with cheese please, fries and a diet Coke. A young woman with “God is the greatest thrill ride.” or “Religion is an adventure.” on the back of her sweatshirt, I don’t remember which, was talking politics with The Chef who was grilling the dogs to greasy charred perfection.
The Chef pontificated that if John Kerry becomes President it’ll set the country back 17 years. How he calculated that exact amount of retro-retrenchment of America he did not share, but he repeated it several times with much authority. So I guess he must be right.
He said he liked Kerry’s other guy more, meaning John Edwards. At which point I entered the conversation with “Oh you mean the Breck Girl.” I clarified with that he’s so pretty they call him the Breck Girl on TV.
Rita Religion indicated that they had just zoomed over her head like a low flying fighter jet zipping to its insurgent target inside an Iraqi slum. I added the fighter jet part. Then she said that someone at her church had come and told them that George Bush had started something that God wanted finished. Yeah, Armageddon!
She thought that was very profound and something to pray about, no doubt. I refrained from saying the Armageddon thing aloud knowing that it’s better not to argue, unless you have nothing else to do with the rest of your life, with someone who stencils their deepest religious convictions on their sweatshirts.
After she left, The Chef told me that, until that brief exchange, he could have sworn Gilda Godly was a Democrat. I replied that if she connected George Bush with God, then she wasn’t a Democrat. He eyed me suspiciously as he slapped cheese slices on my buns.
The Chef and political pundit then said that if Kerry gets in it’ll be good for the hombahahs. He said it so low I couldn’t understand him, so I guessed “ Homeboys?” and said so. He corrected me and said “Homos. Good for the homos.” He next guaranteed that then there’d be gay marriages, subtly suggesting in the millions.
He said this probably believing that, because my big belly makes me less than buff and I’m too bald for a gay date on a Saturday night, that I was straight. The fact that I’m married to a woman would solidify that leap to a conclusion of his.
My feelings about gay marriages is that why should all the gays be single and happy? Why not let them be as miserable as many of the married people you meet all the time? Allow them to share in the agony and financial ruin that divorce entails. I’d like to point out that I’m very happily married and any disparaging remarks about marriage would refer to my first wife- Ruby Runaround.
Finally El Chefo said that if gays can marry, then the mother of his girlfriend could get married. I replied “Congratulations” on their impending nuptials in the new Kerry administration, ignoring my initial shocked reaction that this fat sloppy greasy guy has a girlfriend! He looked at me suspiciously and repeated this declaration, not really sure which way I was swinging now.
I took my Spot dogs, fries and drink outside to sit in one of their rock hard plastic chairs at a wobbly sidewalk table and watched the parade of tight jeans, pert butts, jogging cleavage, short dresses, high heels trying to stay out of the sidewalk cracks, sneakers, team t-shirts, baseball caps, muscle shirts, smirks and smiles all hurrying from bar to bar searching for sex, laughs and intoxication. It was dinner with a curbside view.
A super-sized woman in a motorized wheelchair rolled up like a beached whale, packed protectively in a pile of blankets like she was fragile cargo in a container to be shipped half way round the world. She had slippers on and her poor feet were scaly and red rashed. The hand that controlled the knobs of her wheelchair was frozen in a fist with gnarled fingers. We exchanged greetings and pleasantries then she began speaking with the grubby guy that accompanied her.
He mentioned that he’d been sleeping on park benches at night awakening wet with the morning dew. Being a celebrated poet, I added the morning dew part. Then he started yelling for service that was only available in the restaurant and not on the sidewalk. How he fared I do not know, as I left for the Harrisburg Hilton to use their facilities.
Inside the Hilton I encountered black ties, suits and cigar smoking people, and that was just the women. Of course, I don’t mean that, there were some men there looking like that too. Obviously, it was a gala for the rich and powerful of the Burg. In other words, it was a perfect place to take a piss.
Such were the highlights of a Saturday Night Live on Second Street in Harrisburg.

AN ANONYMOUS APOLOGY

Recently, we went to the number one movie in the world, not just America. There was my wife and I with her sister Joan, her husband George and their grandson Jay O’Neill. It was a comic book summer movie with excellent reviews and we all thought it was just OK. Considering I haven’t read a comic book in over 50 years I guess that’s a pretty good review after all.
Then we went to a State College restaurant where you can eat peanuts and throw the shells on the floor while you wait for a table on a bench in a long side room. It’s always fun to make a mess in someone else’s place.
However, we picked the worst night of the year to eat there because it was both graduation day and prom night. We had to wait over an hour to eat with some very well dressed teenagers and their proud parents.
The meal was delicious and the conversation fun. We parted company to go grocery shopping then we returned home. All in all, it was a grand day. The telephone answering machine in the kitchen flashed a message waiting. So I pushed the button and the mystery began.
The waiting message said, in a stranger’s voice, “Bill, ah (Silent pause) Ah. Can’t even say it. Huh. Sorry buddy.”
It made me stop in my steps and sent a slight shiver down my spine. I played it for my wife and she stopped talking, which is rare. I told her I had no idea who it was and our caller ID just listed it as an Unknown Caller.
I hurried up and called my 92-year-old mother to see if she was alright. She was. I told her about the call and she was worried that someone was apologizing for something he was going to do to me. Then I called my grandson to see if he was OK.
As we put the groceries away we tried to think who in the world made the call. It almost sounded suicidal. An anonymous apology had shaken up the Roddey household like a small tremor.
What’s so odd is that this is not notably an apologetic country. It seems like everybody’s right and nobody’s wrong these days. At times, it’s like one continuous cable news show with everyone shouting at each other. If you do make a mistake and tell the aggrieved person about it they could sue you, if it’s something serious.
Insurance companies warn you not to apologize after an accident because that’s like admitting guilt and then they can’t fight their pay out. Almost nobody apologizes anymore unless it’s a politician whose poll numbers have dropped because of something he or she said somewhere that offended someone.
Drivers cut you off in traffic then make an obscene gesture if you beep in protest. Teenage girls tape themselves beating up on other teenage girls then post it on the internet with pride. Murderers blame their victims for making them kill them. Red states blame the blue states for the state we’re in.
There’s not a lot of apologizing going around, just righteous indignation if you don’t agree with someone. So an anonymous apology can throw you for a loop wondering aimlessly about who apologized and why.
Maybe it’s a remorseful school bully who stole your lunch money and beat you up at recess years ago. Maybe it’s your ex who dumped you then went into bad relationships afterwards and is now having second thoughts. Maybe it’s your former mean boss who’s looking back on his career thru too many shot glasses and feels badly about the way he treated you. Maybe it’s the man who refused to give you his zip code at the store with his purchase and you got in trouble from your boss because you didn’t type it in, like you were told.
Maybe it’s the person who broke up your marriage. Maybe it’s the hit and run driver who put you in the hospital. Maybe it’s a relative who’s on his death bed and is afraid of going to hell for the way he treated you. Maybe it’s the teacher who flunked you because you talked back to him and that stopped you from getting into an Ivy League college. Maybe it’s Earl, from the TV series “My Name is Earl”, trying to make amends on his list.
I think everyone deserves a multitude of apologies over the vagaries of life’s slings, arrows and body blows that come our way. Perhaps it’s best never to know where my anonymous apology came from and just accept it as one of life’s little blessings that blunts the harshness of reality a bit and shows some measure of justice in this world, before my inevitable demise.
I just hope you get your anonymous apology some day so you can apply it to everyone you thought did you wrong.

An edited version of this was published in the Winter ’08 edition of COMMON GROUND magazine.