“Do you drink?”
“Socially. Few times a week.”
“Do you smoke?”
“No.”
“How’s your diet?
“I’m not on a diet.”
“I mean, what do you eat?”
“Oh. You know. All kinds of stuff.”
“Like?”
“I don’t know . . . roast pork sandwiches, wings, cheesesteaks, pizza steaks, pepperoni steaks, soft pretzels, cheese fries, crab fries, Spanish fries, potato chips, popcorn, pizza, fried chicken, waffles, pancakes, French toast, hoagies – usually Italian, eggs, sausage, bacon, grilled cheese and bacon, donuts, pastries, mozzarella cheese sticks, chicken parm, eggplant parm, scrapple, hashbrowns, corned beef hash, corned beef sandwiches, roast beef sandwiches, the Paesano from Paesano’s – you know, it’s got brisket and a fried egg and stuff, I usually get their roasted potatoes with it, lasagna, fettuccine alfredo, stuffed mushrooms, ravioli, stuffed shells, rollatini, sausage and peppers, kielbasa, bratwurst, pierogies, dumplings, General Tso’s chicken, fried rice, lo mein, lamb saag, chicken tikka masala, doner kebab, gyros – usually lamb, souvlaki – usually chicken, burritos, tacos, taquitos, fajitas, quesadillas, chips and salsa, chips and guacamole, ribs, pulled pork, pork belly, pork chops, fried chicken. . . .”
“You already said ‘fried chicken.’”
“Oh, sorry. I guess that’s about it.”
“What about burgers and hot dogs, you don’t like those?”
“Oh yeah, those too. Cheeseburgers. Always a dog at the Phillies game.”
“You don’t eat fish?”
“Sometimes I get fish and chips at The Abbaye.”
“No fruits or vegetables?”
“. . .”
“Well, the chart says you’re overweight, but not obese. You must exercise pretty often?”
“I play a lot of basketball and soccer.”
“Listen, Drew, you’re young, but you’re gonna have to change your eating habits. If your diet is really limited to the foods you described, you’re eventually gonna blow up like a balloon and you’ll have some health issues.”
“. . .”
“And come back and see me more than once every ten years. You should get a physical every three years.”
Drew left the doctor’s office and stopped at Rustica for a couple of slices en route to The Druid’s Keep, where he had six PBRs throughout the evening. By the fifth PBR he was hungry again, but a slow, mesmerizing version of the doctor’s voice hung in the air around him. “You’ll blow up like a balloon, Drew,” the doctor said inside Drew’s head, like all the foods he craved were his own personal Red Ryder. ‘You’ll shoot your eye out, kid.’ “You’ll blow up like a balloon, Drew.”
The following week, the doctor’s warning lingered, and Drew ate healthier than he ever had as an adult, losing five pounds in the process. Learning of his lower weight effectively silenced the doctor, so Drew went back to eating whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. The five pounds returned to his body post haste.
Showing posts with label Drew. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Drew. Show all posts
Cornhole at the Keep
“What’s going on out there?” Some dude, standing in the doorway by the pool table, asked in the general direction of Garret and Joseph.
“It’s Tuesday night,” was Garret’s reply.
The dude stood there, uncomprehending, for long enough to prompt Joseph to say, “Cornhole.”
“Oh, right on,” said the dude, who grabbed a buddy of his, walked outside and around the back corner of The Druid’s Keep, and wrote their names on the white dry erase board, putting them fifth in line for a game.
Annabeth sat at a table outside with her friend, Eliza, sipping a $2 can of PBR, deep in thought.
“Are there, like, way more catastrophes nowadays than ever before? Or do we just have much faster and wider access to news, so it just seems that way?”
“I don’t know,” Eliza replied, “I think it’s both. I mean, we have nuclear power plants and deep sea oil rigs . . . they didn’t have that stuff a hundred years ago. And we also hear about everything in real time, which didn’t used to be possible.”
“It’s so depressing.”
On the two cornhole sets, one of the games moved slowly and the other hardly saw a bag miss the board. Mark and his ‘Kleenex Method,’ so called because he held the bag between two fingers and his thumb and just flicked his wrist ever so slightly, like someone pulling tissue from a box, dominated on the near court.
But it was Mark’s partner, Drew, who caused everyone to start shouting when he sunk four bags in a row to seal the game.
“Next! Bring ‘em on.” Drew called out as he and Mark slapped hands.
The Phillies defended their division lead, projected high and large onto an unpainted cinder block wall outside by the cornhole games, against the Braves while a cop watched from his car on the corner. Some people left the bar and took a walk and grabbed a slice of pizza and brought it back to the bar and ate it there. The night sky had a light blue hue to it, moonlight reflecting off the city and merging with city lights, shining down on that happy corner bar in their corner of the world.
“It’s Tuesday night,” was Garret’s reply.
The dude stood there, uncomprehending, for long enough to prompt Joseph to say, “Cornhole.”
“Oh, right on,” said the dude, who grabbed a buddy of his, walked outside and around the back corner of The Druid’s Keep, and wrote their names on the white dry erase board, putting them fifth in line for a game.
Annabeth sat at a table outside with her friend, Eliza, sipping a $2 can of PBR, deep in thought.
“Are there, like, way more catastrophes nowadays than ever before? Or do we just have much faster and wider access to news, so it just seems that way?”
“I don’t know,” Eliza replied, “I think it’s both. I mean, we have nuclear power plants and deep sea oil rigs . . . they didn’t have that stuff a hundred years ago. And we also hear about everything in real time, which didn’t used to be possible.”
“It’s so depressing.”
On the two cornhole sets, one of the games moved slowly and the other hardly saw a bag miss the board. Mark and his ‘Kleenex Method,’ so called because he held the bag between two fingers and his thumb and just flicked his wrist ever so slightly, like someone pulling tissue from a box, dominated on the near court.
But it was Mark’s partner, Drew, who caused everyone to start shouting when he sunk four bags in a row to seal the game.
“Next! Bring ‘em on.” Drew called out as he and Mark slapped hands.
The Phillies defended their division lead, projected high and large onto an unpainted cinder block wall outside by the cornhole games, against the Braves while a cop watched from his car on the corner. Some people left the bar and took a walk and grabbed a slice of pizza and brought it back to the bar and ate it there. The night sky had a light blue hue to it, moonlight reflecting off the city and merging with city lights, shining down on that happy corner bar in their corner of the world.
Saturday Drew
Drew knew he should be drinking water, not beer, but this didn’t stop him from smiling after the first big gulps from his Darkside Imperial Belgian Stout. Even Master Yoda would enjoy this Darkside, he thought, as the beer’s deep flavors lingered in his mouth, the subtle bit of dark chocolate taste.
He was the first of his Casa soccer team to arrive at Kraftwork, their usual destination after Saturday games.
A girl on the other side of the bar reminded him of one he dated during college, and he wondered what he’d be doing right now if things had worked out differently. Not with the girl, but with soccer, if he’d kept at it.
It’s not the lure of playing before a crowd or seeing his name in lights, that’s not the part that mattered to him, not what he feels he missed. It’s just about whether he could’ve been better, could’ve fulfilled his promise.
Stop all the second guessing, he told himself after a long swig from his beer. It’s so easy to blame the present on the past, to fixate on irreversible decisions while today’s clock ticks.
A couple of guys from Drew’s team arrived together and he ordered a round. What may have been will remain unknown, but the beer tasted good after a game.
He was the first of his Casa soccer team to arrive at Kraftwork, their usual destination after Saturday games.
A girl on the other side of the bar reminded him of one he dated during college, and he wondered what he’d be doing right now if things had worked out differently. Not with the girl, but with soccer, if he’d kept at it.
It’s not the lure of playing before a crowd or seeing his name in lights, that’s not the part that mattered to him, not what he feels he missed. It’s just about whether he could’ve been better, could’ve fulfilled his promise.
Stop all the second guessing, he told himself after a long swig from his beer. It’s so easy to blame the present on the past, to fixate on irreversible decisions while today’s clock ticks.
A couple of guys from Drew’s team arrived together and he ordered a round. What may have been will remain unknown, but the beer tasted good after a game.
Annabeth
Annabeth rolls onto her back and looks up into the perfectly clear blue sky. Some days, she thinks, nature just demands that we be outside. No specific purpose necessary. A breeze blowing through her hair and the sun warming her body are enough, today.
Two young men walk down Frankford Ave and she hears them laughing aloud, one punches the other and runs a few steps ahead and they call each other names until they're out of sight. A pregnant young woman pushes a giggling toddler around in a stroller. An octogenarian couple walks gingerly to the former Neumann Medical Center on the corner, now an assisted living facility. Annabeth watches them all.
She sits up and pulls her knees to her chest and then sinks down again onto her back, stretches her arms and legs as far as they'll go, like that famous da Vinci drawing, enjoying the feel of Palmer Park's cool grass against her bare arms and lower legs.
Many a male poker player assumes she deals cards for a living because she wants to meet him. She’s accustomed to being hit on just about anywhere she goes.
A guy with tattoo sleeves walks his Rottweiler across the small park and for a moment she thinks it's that bartender guy with the Yoda tattoo. She's surprised by a feeling of disappointment when she realizes it's not him. After all, he's just another drunk dumb enough to ask her back to his apartment within hours of meeting her, even after she'd given him her number and made it clear he should call her some other time.
She picks at the grass in front of her and throws it. What would she do if he calls, she wonders? The bar was crazy that night and when a couple of meaty dudes became belligerent over nothing at all, she loved the way he handled it, staring at them calmly, somehow displaying great strength in his passivity. She didn't take him for the type to pursue her so aggressively after last call when she’d stuck around waiting for her sister to stop talking to that Garret guy.
If he's at Drew's party Saturday night, she decides, she'll consider letting him talk to her.
She rolls over onto her chest and rests her chin upon her knuckles, smiles and waves back at a young boy and girl who pass.
Two young men walk down Frankford Ave and she hears them laughing aloud, one punches the other and runs a few steps ahead and they call each other names until they're out of sight. A pregnant young woman pushes a giggling toddler around in a stroller. An octogenarian couple walks gingerly to the former Neumann Medical Center on the corner, now an assisted living facility. Annabeth watches them all.
She sits up and pulls her knees to her chest and then sinks down again onto her back, stretches her arms and legs as far as they'll go, like that famous da Vinci drawing, enjoying the feel of Palmer Park's cool grass against her bare arms and lower legs.
Many a male poker player assumes she deals cards for a living because she wants to meet him. She’s accustomed to being hit on just about anywhere she goes.
A guy with tattoo sleeves walks his Rottweiler across the small park and for a moment she thinks it's that bartender guy with the Yoda tattoo. She's surprised by a feeling of disappointment when she realizes it's not him. After all, he's just another drunk dumb enough to ask her back to his apartment within hours of meeting her, even after she'd given him her number and made it clear he should call her some other time.
She picks at the grass in front of her and throws it. What would she do if he calls, she wonders? The bar was crazy that night and when a couple of meaty dudes became belligerent over nothing at all, she loved the way he handled it, staring at them calmly, somehow displaying great strength in his passivity. She didn't take him for the type to pursue her so aggressively after last call when she’d stuck around waiting for her sister to stop talking to that Garret guy.
If he's at Drew's party Saturday night, she decides, she'll consider letting him talk to her.
She rolls over onto her chest and rests her chin upon her knuckles, smiles and waves back at a young boy and girl who pass.
Drew's Drive
Drew turns left onto 8th Street off Callowhill and sees the line of cars backing up the entrance to 676 West. He takes a deep breath and holds it for about four seconds before he exhales. Another morning drive from the city to Valley Forge.
He thinks of today’s schedule as his black Ford Fusion passes the Broad Street exit. Meetings to attend, phone calls to make, countless emails from people who expect prompt responses.
A dark green Jeep Cherokee comes to an abrupt halt in front of Drew and he taps the brakes just as he sips his coffee and some of the coffee spills onto his khaki pants. “Shit,” he says out loud to nobody. He tries to wipe away the coffee with his hand, but only makes the stain bigger.
Suddenly Drew’s thoughts cease and he feels trapped, like his life is a record being played over and over again and he doesn’t much like the song.
He turns the radio to 88.5 and hears a few guitar strokes before familiar lyrics at a different tempo from a voice he doesn’t recognize. It’s Outkast’s 'Hey Ya,' an acoustic version. The original was hot while he was a student without a care in the world, and though this cover slows the pace, it transports him to a time when he was free, each day unfolding on a whim.
The song ends and for a moment he’s thankful for his life, his family, his and their health. Forty five minutes later he arrives at his office and goes through the motions, gets through the day with a stain on his pants and a tune stuck in his head.
(Listen to Obadiah Parker's acoustic cover of Outkast's 'Hey Ya' here)
He thinks of today’s schedule as his black Ford Fusion passes the Broad Street exit. Meetings to attend, phone calls to make, countless emails from people who expect prompt responses.
A dark green Jeep Cherokee comes to an abrupt halt in front of Drew and he taps the brakes just as he sips his coffee and some of the coffee spills onto his khaki pants. “Shit,” he says out loud to nobody. He tries to wipe away the coffee with his hand, but only makes the stain bigger.
Suddenly Drew’s thoughts cease and he feels trapped, like his life is a record being played over and over again and he doesn’t much like the song.
He turns the radio to 88.5 and hears a few guitar strokes before familiar lyrics at a different tempo from a voice he doesn’t recognize. It’s Outkast’s 'Hey Ya,' an acoustic version. The original was hot while he was a student without a care in the world, and though this cover slows the pace, it transports him to a time when he was free, each day unfolding on a whim.
The song ends and for a moment he’s thankful for his life, his family, his and their health. Forty five minutes later he arrives at his office and goes through the motions, gets through the day with a stain on his pants and a tune stuck in his head.
(Listen to Obadiah Parker's acoustic cover of Outkast's 'Hey Ya' here)
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