Down for the count

The Fourth Sunday After Epiphany

Super Bowl Sunday

                                    “Now concerning food sacrificed to idols . . .”

                                                                                    - 1 Corinthians 8:1

Hamlin Moody (See here.) calls just after one. “What are you doing?” he asks. I look outside – dreary, cold, traces of snow in the shade in front of the north-facing houses. “Not thinking about golf,” I say. “Nah, nah,” he says, hesitates. “Nah, not at all. Why did you ring that up?” – hurt. “What else?” “Anything right now.” “Do you mean what am I doing right now?” “I guess.” “Besides talking to you . . .” a half question; I look around: “I’m washing the dishes,” because the phone is in the kitchen, I can see the sink; I’m not really washing dishes, I just can’t think what else to say.

          “What about the game?” “Yeah?” “What are you doing about the game?” “Watching it, I suppose.” “Right. Aren’t we all?” He hazards half a chuckle. I hazard a swallow and push out: “Do you want to come over?” Not that I want him to, but I’m stuck. Roz is going out, in any case, getting together with a friend; they’re going to cook something for a mutual friend, who’s down and out with something, and watch the game on the TV behind them while they’re cooking – at least until halftime.

          “I’ll probably be home by halftime,” she said last night, just before she turned away from me and her light off. “Yeah,” I said to the dark. “Okay.”

“No. I don’t think so. Would it be all right?” “Sure.” “No,” I can hear him waving it off. A long pause; I tell myself I’m not going to end it. And, I don’t! He wavers back in: “I was thinking about going to Bellows'.” “The painter’s?” “Is there a painter? . . .  No, the bar – it’s on Lexington just off of Great, you don’t know it?” I do; I just didn’t know the name; it keeps changing hands, and I can’t read the smeary temporary-permanent sign.

          “They’ve got a good screen; it won’t be too crowded I don’t think. I don’t know. You wanna come?

          “You were there once.” I remember. I don’t think I want to start this either, but I end up saying, “Sure,” because I can’t think how to say, “No.” Maybe it will be okay.

Phoenix Fight Night

We watch the game. I won’t elaborate: you saw it; if you didn’t you don’t care.

          “That was something, no?” “Yes,” I say, “that was something.” He’s just shaking his head and shaking his head. And shaking his head.

          “You have money on it?” I ask. He shakes his head: “No, though I’d have bet on Boston.”

          He signals the bartender for the tab. We’ve had several beers; I’ve lost count but not consciousness. “What’s my share?” I ask. He shakes his head. “I’ve got it. . . . No, wait. I’ll bet you the tab.” “What? You can’t take the Patriots.” “No, I’ll bet the tab neither of our wives knows who won.”

          I don’t tell him I’m not married; that’s a conversation I don’t want to start now, if ever. “Okay,” I say, though I have minimal confidence in Roz, especially if she came home at half-time, especially if Downton Abby was up against the game.

          But we call her first - on speaker. “Hey,” I say. “I’ve got a bet here” – I don’t tell her I’ve got money on it. “I’ve got a bet here. Who won the game?” She hesitates only long enough to give me “that look.” “Not Seattle,” she says.

          “Then, there was a fight,” she says. “Stupid.”

          I look at Hamlin, mouth “Good enough?” He shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders. I say into the device, “Home soon.” It replies: “Good.”

We call it even. He doesn’t have to pay the double, but he does pay the tab.

          “I’ll head home, then,” I say. “Let me drive you.” “No, I can walk.” And I could. It had gotten warmer. A light rain was falling, hardly more than a mist. It felt good on my face.

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