Chapter 5 - Groceries/The Nap

Part I

I ran out of sandwich meats the other day, and my dad wants to start playing tennis, so we needed to buy some tennis balls as well. My dad’s memory, to be nice, is about as pathetic as my ability to properly drink from a glass; it’s pretty bad. (As for my lack of skill in successfully pouring a liquid into my mouth, and only into my mouth, I’m working on it. Fortunately, Powerade has come out with an ingenious, and might I add, cool, baby's bottle made for adults!) As for my dad’s lamentable memory, luckily he can read and I can write, so I wrote down a list not unlike this one:

-tennis balls (the good kind because if you skimp out and buy cheap ones, they won’t bounce)

-tuna or chicken for sandwiches

I further clarified in person, telling my dad that he has to fight his urge to buy the cheap tennis balls. They don’t bounce, and therefore we won’t be able to play if you get those ones. Unfortunately, I didn’t delve into any more specifics on my choice of meats.

More often than not in the case of my father, the sensory input of information and the resulting physical output conflict to the point of absurdity. The kids in his head who play Telephone (and terribly so) managed to turn "good tennis balls" into "tennis balls you wouldn’t buy for your dog". The tennis balls were bought at Buck or Two, and came in a little mesh bag with a "1$" sticker on it. The line of glue was clearly visible where the two halves of the ball had been fused together. "Tuna or chicken" had eventually come out as ham.

As I’ve hinted at, my dad’s sole reason for being is to save every last possible penny. He goes shopping at either Superstore or Costco, and spends an hour every Sunday hording over the grocery store ads that come in the Herald, madly circling the good deals with a red knockoff sharpie he bought exclusively for this purpose.

I joined him and his girlfriend on a shopping trip, as I was put under the impression that my dad and I were getting new glasses. The ones we both currently have we’re bought at Wal-Mart, and since embarking on this experience, I refuse to put up with chintziness. It’s been a year since we bought our spectacles, and mine look like they’ve barely survived being sat on by Jon Brower Minnoch (google him).

About ten minutes after leaving the house, my dad realized he’d forgotten our eye prescriptions. I completely blame myself on this one for lack of foresight into his awful memory. His girlfriend tells us there’s no time to turn back as Costco is closing soon, and we need groceries. I was trapped in the backseat of a car, almost as if I had been kidnapped, hurtling towards my unwanted fate.

Upon arriving to the Costco, my dad was more wound up than a four year old hopped up on candy at Disneyland; every coupon he sees is another Mickey Mouse or Snow White mascot he runs up to and passionately hugs. I was privileged enough to be given the role of "list carrier" and as we strolled through the dairy section, I noticed that we needed butter.

"Uh, Dad, we need butter."

"How much is it?" he yelled from twenty feet ahead.

"Three forty five."

"Nope! Don’t get it, it’s three forty three at Superstore.

My jaw dropped to the floor, and I looked over at his girlfriend.

"Yup," she conceded, "your father knows the Superstore pricing index."

And this is where his memory has gone.

Part II

I frowned a little in confusion as my body painfully reworked itself back into consciousness. My mouth was full of a warm bitter liquid, much too fluid to be stale saliva. Something soggy was gently rubbing against my forehead. I broke open my eyes, and my brain was flooded with the image of a wrinkled, toothless face. Long wispy gray hair shot out in all directions, and the lady’s gray eyes were deeply rooted into her sockets, perched on the sill of droopy bags of skin. I tried to sit up, but a hand forced me back to the ground, and with no other options I turned my head to the side and spat the liquid out onto the grass.

"Just stay lying down," came the sharp raspy voice from the shriveled lips of the old woman. She held me down with one hand, and with the other, kept patting my head with a rag of some kind. "Hey Jonny," she said as she turned to look behind her. She then coughed, and hoarsely continued. "The boy’s awake."

I tried my best to take in my surroundings; by this time the adrenaline was taking over and my heart was beating so fast that the pumping metronome in my head was breaking my thoughts into useless pieces. I could tell I was in a park downtown in the shade of a pine tree; I remembered walking here to take a nap.

Jonny came over, and we stared at each other confusedly. He looked the same age as his lady friend and sported the same hair as she did, although he had a barbarous mane growing off his face to compliment the wild growth on top of his head. He was a large man, not obese by any means, but shared the cap and belly of a trucker. He was shirtless, was wearing a dirty pair of beige cargo shorts, and was barefoot.

With a deep, clear resonating voice, almost god-like in its simplicity and demand, he said, "Son, drink." At this command, the old lady reached around her side and procured an old water bottle filled with a wispy white liquid, tainted by a light yellow tinge. She untwisted the cap, now pinning my chest to the earth with her knees. One hand squeezed my cheeks together, separating my upper and lower jaw and forcing my mouth open. Her other hand carefully poured the liquid into the opening. Normally, I would object to drinking a liquid being forced upon me by a crazy old woman, but I was quite thirsty. The thick taste of warm milky rainwater was overwhelming, but manageable nonetheless. I was still lying on my back, making the act of drinking quite a challenge, and the lady reluctantly let me sit up when I started to cough out the white-yellow juice that had found its way into my lungs. She consolingly patted me on the back. I was still going through shock at the general situation I found myself in, but thought rationally enough to conclude that these two people meant absolutely no harm, unless they had just fed me some grotesque type of poison that would send my body into violent convulsions at any moment.

Jonny offered me a piece of granola bar, to which I declined. He then asked what had happened.

I wasn’t under any impressions that anything had happened, especially not to the extent that I merited the care of homeless people. I looked down at my body and realized that I was very similarly dressed to the old man currently pressing me for answers. I was wearing a dirty pair of shorts, had no shirt on and I'm sure that my hair, although not gray, was a mess. The differences lay in that I had socks and shoes on. "Uh, nothing happened."

"Then why you bleedin’ from the head?"

I pressed my fingers to my forehead and analyzed the evidence. Sure enough, there was blood on my fingertips, and memories of that afternoon’s activities came to mind. "Oh yeah, that. I was playing hockey and was high-sticked."

At this point, the lady dabbed at the cut again, but I stopped her. "No, please. It’s okay. It’s not that bad." She placed the rag in my hand, and I frowned at the realization that the dark blue material looked and felt very familiar. The rag was my shirt.

"Look, son," the old man started, "if you’re alone out on the streets, me an’ Shirley are willin’ to adopt ya. Ya know, keep ya safe from gettin’ beat with a stick again."

The old woman nodded her head up and down in enthusiastic agreement.

I opened my mouth to speak, but it was all for none as the full intensity of such a genuine proposal sunk in. I stared at the ground for a few moments, and a smile spread across my face; I couldn’t contain my excitement.

Goodbye Dad.