Taking Responsibility

Grow up,” she told him with a face of disgust.

           “How should I have known?”

           “No,” she snapped back. “No, don’t even try it.”

           One cup had already been smashed and it appeared that more dishware would be imminently destroyed.

           “You’ve been using those excuses for over a year now and I’m tired of it.”

           The tone changed to one of reluctant acceptance.

           “This isn’t working out, I’m afraid.”

           “Really, this time it wasn’t my fault, I swear to it.”

           “Telling you to ‘grow up’ is about as effective as…”

           “I said I can change, dammit!”

           “As, as… as I don’t know, it’s just not effective at all.”

           A porcelain bowl flew across the kitchen and shattered against the wall. Screaming ripped apart the serenity of the night as emotions roiled and erupted. Minutes seemed to crawl on all fours and drag behind them a boulder.

           “I think this is it,” she began solemnly. “We can’t continue…”

           The furious anger that was palpable only minutes prior morphed into grief.

           “You should leave.”

           “Where will I go?”

           “I don’t know but you can’t stay here.”

           He picked himself off the debris covered floor and shuffled towards the closet. After some brief rummaging he pulled out a decaying suitcase with only three functional wheels.

           “I’ll need some time to… you know,” he elaborated while motioning with one hand.

           She nodded her head in silent reply.

           The waves of depression would usually come and go with seemingly no relation to reality. He battled with it his whole life, but no clear source ever presented itself. This time was different. As he packed his suitcase, the desperation began to tear at him from within. There was no doubt why this was happening. Biting his bottom lip, he continued to stuff clothes into the suitcase. He reached at a shirt, grabbed it and closed his fist tightly around it.

The depression stemmed from no external source – it was all his fault. He was a mess. The tightly held shirt was an ad hoc handkerchief as he sobbed. She stood by the door to the bedroom, feeling pity but firm in her resolve. They both knew he was a mess. He turned around to face her. She turned her head away in disgust as before. Eventually she walked back to the kitchen to clean up the mess. The packing and self-pity continued until one was full and the other empty.

           He trudged towards the door with the suitcase and a backpack slung over one shoulder. He could the sound of glass being swept up coming from the kitchen. A final thought crossed his mind before he left. He discarded it immediately and opened the door. The air hit his tear-streaked face and filled his strained lungs with cool, soothing feeling. The wave of depression suddenly subsided and the world was suddenly whole again. How many times had he been here before but not realized it yet? The threshold he was about to cross was not one he had decided on, but one that was thrust upon him by…

           An angry expletive coming from the kitchen had interrupted his own little Rubicon moment. He quickly concluded that she had cut herself on a shard of glass and returned back to staring at the cool darkness in front of him. There was no going back after this, but she hadn’t left him with any choice in matter. So, it seemed the only thing left was to physically cross. Left foot, right foot. The suitcase dragged behind him and tumbled down onto the concrete porch. He reached back towards the door and slammed it shut. It was done, he was here. He descended the steps while the cool air enveloped him. The door lock clicked behind him.

           “I want this,” he said to himself.

           The words came out clearly, but they seemed like delusional reassurance more than authentic belief. It doesn’t matter if you want this, he thought to himself.

           “No, I need this.”

           Turning around at the door he said one final goodbye and began dragging his suitcase. The fourth wheel dragged against the sidewalk as he soldiered on down the street.

***

           The hotel he was staying at was nothing spectacular, but the change of scenery was a welcome sight. He sat on the bed and glanced around the white room. A NO SMOKING sign hung above the television, and the price of each drink in the mini fridge was neatly written in a pamphlet on the TV stand. He picked it up and considered his choices. Alcohol this, sugary drink that. If growth is what was needed then old habits had to die. He played with the pamphlet in his left hand while staring out the window. Besides, he thought to himself. The water is free.

           He opened the complementary Fresh Springs water and began looking through the pamphlet. Grow up replayed over and over in his head while he stared blankly at the price list. He was a child in an adult’s body. Even during the final argument, he could not own up to his faults.

           “She was right.”

           He took another swig of the water. Suddenly the alcohol looked more and more appealing. He considered his options, all the drinks reminded him of more lackadaisical times. Living for the moment and dismissing responsibility as just another nuisance.

           Mojito flavor BOTTLED, $6.99.

           He took another drink of the water, imaging it more than it was.

           Tequila Sunrise flavor BOTTLED, $7.99.

           He began regretting the crossing of his own little Rubicon earlier.

           Mint Julep flavor BOTTLED, $5.99.

           “But she left me little choice.”

           Ice available on demand, please call room service.

           He let the pamphlet fall to the carpet and finished the water. He grabbed his jacket off the coat hook and headed out into the brisk night. Alcoholism, he concluded, was best engaged in with others. Not alone in a hotel room.

           There were no bars nearby, but a local restaurant seemed a second-best choice. It was at half-capacity from what he could see.

           “Table for one, sir?”

           “Uh, yes,” he replied somewhat caught off guard. “My friends might join me later.”

           “Of course, sir. Please follow me.”

           He scanned the room while following the waiter to his table. Families with children, couples going out on dates not many singles tonight. He could be the impromptu entertainment for the night; give them a fool to mock.

           “Here we are, sir.”

           “Thank you.”

           “Can we start with something to drink?”

           He slowly sat down and looked at the family seated at a table across from him. The boy showed something to his father.

           “Dad, look at what I made.”

           “What is it son?”

           It was a paper with some drawing on it.

           “I’ll have a rye and coke.”

           “Very good, sir,”

           “My little boy is growing up so fast.”

           The waiter turned around and began to leave.

           “Wait, no!”

           “Hmm?” The waiter spun around as if on a swivel.

           “Just lemon water to start, please.”

           “Of course.” He spun around another 180 degrees and disappeared into the back.

           So, this was his sign from above.

           “We’ll hang it on the fridge when we get back, okay son?”

           He felt as if he were falling apart. As he glanced the room, he saw cheerful families and happy couples. What is it that they had that he didn’t? A man got up from his seat and went over to the bar to pay for his meal. His girlfriend followed admiringly behind him.

           A woman at another table wiped her son’s face after he made a mess eating ice cream.

           “Your lemon water, sir.” The waiter appeared as if from the ether.

           “Oh, thank you.”

           “Have you decided on what you would like to eat?”

           “No, not yet.”

           “Very good, sir.” The waiter swivelled around and vanished.

           The father and son across from him were getting up to pay for their meal. He had brought with him a large leather briefcase. He must have come from work directly here. No, he went to pick up his son first.

           “Daddy let me carry that for you.”

           The young child valiantly attempted to pick up the briefcase but eventually failed, much to the amusement of his father.

           “When you grow up son, I’ll let you carry this for me, okay?”

           The man picked up his briefcase, embraced his son, and walked over to pay.

She kicked me out to help me grow, he thought to himself as he sipped the lemon water.

Responsibility is vital, happiness & part of life it doesn't matter even you don't have everything and it doesn't needs only having everything, even a little or trying is fine.

Year Ten(10): New Year's Eve

James walked into his closet to get dressed. It was an obvious choice; not for lack of other choices, but because it was his annual New Year’s Eve outfit. The Outfit, as his family referred to it, was a flannel shirt of muted tan, blue and two tones of orange, paired with dark wash jeans, brown suede chukka boots, and a belt.

Ten years he’d been wearing this exact outfit to the family’s annual company New Year’s Eve party. Well, not the exact outfit. He had to buy a whole new outfit after his final growth spurt the year he turned 19. It was difficult to find an exact match, but he was so close that no one noticed, or maybe they did notice and just didn’t care to comment. The latter was more likely since that year had marked the 5th time he had repeated the outfit.

The yearly comments went roughly like this, respectively:

Didn’t you wear that last year? Why are you wearing it again?

OK, you definitely wore that the past two years. Why?

James, Why? Is this a character thing? (referring to one of the many books he perpetually had his nose in) Are you being superstitious? Is this a bet? Do you wear the same underwear? Seriously, why? You could at least have picked a better look.

When he failed to provide a sufficient answer, the years following didn’t draw much attention. Maybe an eye roll or “wouldn’t be New Years’ Eve without some flannel” or something similarly small and passing. James didn’t care if they joked or got annoyed or thought he was doing it for attention or didn’t pay any attention at all.   

Across town Chelsea and Marie were getting ready in their shared two-bedroom apartment. Marie had worked for Gamblin & Gamblin law firm for close to four years and had attended the annual New Years’ Eve bash since she started. Her sister Chelsea moved to the city two years ago and had been Marie’s plus-one the past two years.  

Chelsea finished her hair and make up then carefully pulled on her sequin top and tucked it in to her black pixie pants. She slipped on her low-heeled, pointed-toe slingbacks and chose a few pieces of jewelry. Her look was festive with the sequins, yet sleek, understated, smart. And, most importantly, exactly the same as last year.

This might be a really stupid idea, she thought. But then again, why did it matter if it was stupid. It’s just one night and if the joke fell through she could just move on unbothered for the rest of the year.  

Marie and Chelsea arrived about 9:30 and the party was already well underway. The band played, people were dancing, drinking, mingling. They said some hellos, found a table with some of Marie’s coworkers and sat down.

After a few minutes of getting settled at the table, Chelsea headed to the bar. The bar was a better location to observe the crowd. Not only did she thoroughly enjoy people watching, she was thoroughly uninterested in mingling with people she didn’t know, plus she was curious if the flannel guy would be in attendance. She’d seen him the past two years and assumed based on the interactions she’d observed that he was one of the Gamblins. She had decided that anyone who dressed like a lumberjack every year in a law firm family of gold and glitter and nails and eyelashes and extensions and polished shoes and suits and ties and dresses and no doubt lots of cosmetic surgeries had to have a very good sense of humor. Well, she hoped anyway.

James watched Chelsea approach the bar. He recognized her immediately from the previous year. He stalled for a few minutes while she ordered and received her drink, deciding what to say when he approached her.  

“Who inspired your look tonight?” James asked as he sat on the barstool next to her.

Chelsea’s eyes widened in entertained surprise as she turned toward him. “A lumberjack”, she answered.

He laughed out loud. “You don’t look like a lumberjack.”

“Yes. Well, I am only inspired by the lumberjack’s sense of humor and brave consistency, not his actual outfit”

“His sense of humor? His brave consistency?” He looked genuinely surprised.

Chelsea explained that anyone who is brave enough to repeat this outfit (waving a hand up and down in James’ direction) every year in this (more hand waving) family has to be very brave and have a sense of humor.

James nodded in understanding. “I have no idea if your observation is true or I’m just boring and stupid, but I’ll consider it a compliment and gladly accept.”

“I’m impressed you even recognized me. I figured I would need to approach you tonight, bragging that I too can wear the exact same outfit for consecutive years.”

“I have a pretty good memory, but I also probably cheated because of your hair.”

Chelsea instinctively reached up to pull any loose strands behind her ears. Her hair was gorgeous- dark, thick curls barely tamed by product. When she was young, she hated her hair. Hated! Now that she was older she liked that it set her apart, but she still wished she had a little more control over it.

“Yes, it’s hard to sneak by with this mop. Good job either way. And why have you been wearing the same outfit? Is this always your party look?”

He explained to her that this marked the tenth anniversary of wearing the same outfit and it was pretty much equal parts convenience and personal genuine curiosity. James told her that he started it with no future plans, but each year he grew increasingly more curious and simply kept it up to see what, if anything, would come of it all. Maybe he’d learn something, realize something- about himself, his family, society?

“Ten years!?” Chelsea nearly yelled. She clasped her hand over her mouth and looked around, aware her reaction may have been a little too much. James shrunk inside at her reaction. Saying it out loud sounded so lame. Why had he told her? What had he expected? Again, he hadn’t thought about it too much; he was just moving forward as a type of experiment.

“Hey!” A voice came from behind as an arm wrapped around Chelsea. They both turned to see Marie.

“You OK over here, Chels?” Marie asked as she gave her sister a look of I can get you out of this if you need.

“We’re good. We are just about to toast. Want to join?”

As Marie flagged the bar tender for a drink, James looked to Chelsea curiously. Chelsea just winked at him. The anxiety James had felt only moments before completely dissipated as he realized that he had completely misread her reaction. While they waited for Marie’s drink, introductions were made after Marie thrust her hand out to James.

They raised their glasses and Chelsea said, “To us and the rest of the at-TEN-dees of this party; may we all enjoy the evening!” During the stressed ten, Chelsea looked at James and subtly raised her eyebrows to him.

Marie looked confused for a moment, but brushed it off pretty quickly. She took a swig of her drink, kissed Chelsea on the cheek, and said she’d circle back around in a little while.

As soon as Marie left, James and Chelsea laughed at the ridiculous inside joke. Chelsea told him they needed to celebrate this ten-year milestone. In fact, this party was now for him and no longer a celebration of New Year’s Eve. Chelsea challenged James to a toasting duel. The rules were that the word ten must be in the toast in some way, no repeats, and they had to witness each other’s toasts or it didn’t count. If the rules were followed then one point was awarded to that person, but if not then one point was deducted.

The score Chelsea- 1, James- 0.

James argued it wasn’t a fair point, because they hadn’t yet established the rules of the game or even the fact that there was a game. Chelsea looked at him with mock sympathy and told him he was wasting precious time as she stepped away to a nearby couple and raised her glass to them.

Chelsea- 2, James- 0.

During the next hour and a half, Chelsea and James aggressively vied to toast with every person in the room. It was much easier for Chelsea since she didn’t actually know anyone at the party, but James had to abruptly end anything past a pleasantry, not to mention suffer the embarrassment of delivering a moronic toast to people he actually knew. It was bordering on rude at times, but he didn’t seem to care.

“Thank you for turning your at-TEN-tion to me! Have a great evening, and drink merrily!”

“Choose a number between one and Ten, in that month you’ll see a hen.”

“May we all start the new year under wonderfully ambitious pre-Ten-ses!”

What the toasts lacked in actual celebration or purpose or even intelligent speech, they made up for in enthusiasm and randomness and a strong sense of competition.

“It grea-TEN-s me gladly you are all here tonight. Cheers!”

“Let’s end this year with lots of cheer and think of it fondly and of-TEN.”

They were so enthralled in their competition that James and Chelsea were caught off guard by the countdown

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.

Kissing and Auld Lang Syne swirled all around them, streamers and balloons fell from the ceiling. They both paused, looked around, then at each other. What were they supposed to do? Neither knew. They hadn’t been flirting, they barely knew each other, but they had just spent the past two hours together, laughing and having fun. They stood there.

Chelsea’s mind was racing. Don’t be awkward. Say something. Don’t be awkward. Say something.

She stepped forward; arm out stretched for a handshake. “Good game.”

James shook her hand and asked, “who won?”

Chelsea held up eight fingers as she stepped backward. “I did.”

James feigned disappointment.

“James, even though you lost tonight, you played a good game.” Chelsea said as she held her hand to her mouth with an imagined microphone, “And tell us! What have you learned tonight? What have you learned in these ten years? What will you take away from this experience?” She held her hand out or him to speak into the microphone.

James laughed good naturedly. What had he learned, he wondered?

He had been such a good sport with her ridiculous, immature, nerdy, awkward antics all night. Chelsea realized in that moment how much she appreciated him. Over the past couple of hours, she never once felt like she was embarrassing him or that she was too much for him. He had gone right along with her joke, and the silly competition she had introduced.

“Well, I’ve learned that wearing the same thing, like a uniform, makes things very simple.” He answered. “And on the contrary, society’s drive for materialism, status, impressions, etc. makes wearing a uniform a weird thing. Specifically, tonight I’ve definitely learned that some people, really know how to have fun.” He paused and shook his head. “Man, neither of those answers hold much weight. I feel like I should have a better answer and that I need to think about this.”

Just then Marie came hurrying over and threw her arms around her sister, “Happy New Year! Wow, this year has passed so quickly.” Marie turned toward James, “Happy New Year!” she said with a big grin. “Before we know it, we’ll be back here celebrating again.”

 Marie was pulling Chelsea away from James, it was time to head home.

“Well, you have all year to come up with a better answer. See you next year? Same bat-time, same bat-channel?” Chelsea called out to him as she walked away, winking at him.

“Definitely.” He said and waved good-bye.

😃😊✔️ A wonderful, sweet and fun weekend to you all

IN THE ENVELOPE

There was something so final about the sealing of an envelope, pressing down the flaps just so. The address had been written beforehand, brown eyes darting between the glowing phone screen to where her hand waited, pen at the ready. 

    Check.

    Double check. 

    It would be too much, having this letter sent back from one simple spelling error, one wrong number, one pen running out of ink. 

    The card was a simple one, a painted image of running water. Perhaps a stream, creak, river. Anne thought it was more of a waterfall, leaving out its end and beginning. 

    Its beginning. Where was the beginning? What was there to write, after all this time? 

Her thoughts were chaotic, to say the least. 

    There had to be something. After all that time together, there had to be something. 

    Are you alright? could be taken so many different ways. I’ve missed you, a simple statement of truth. We were friends for five years, best friends, only friends, people who clung to each other despite, or perhaps because of depression, angry parents, pressure from societal expectations. Then the day of graduation, you were just gone. Did it happen? Did your family cross the line yet again, and you couldn’t take it anymore? Their blindness to the real you. Did they send you away; did you escape? What happened back then? Did I do anything wrong? I loved you, you know. I don’t know if I’ve ever loved anyone as much as I did you, back then. You saved me simply by being there, two depressed teens with somewhat parallel lives - strained families, college expectations, the push to date (or to not date) the boy next door. Understanding what the other was thinking and feeling without saying a word. It was enough to sit together on the stone steps at lunch, not being alone. To be honest, I am not sure what to write to you. I just know that for five years we were friends, then the next five years without you happened. I tried texting and calling you. Was that wrong? I hope I didn’t text too many times. How many is too many? After it really settled that you were gone, I stopped. That’s what friends do, right? Check on each other, worry, try to stay in touch. I was looking over a list of people on the city council, and saw your name. If this is another person than the one I knew, I am sorry for the confusion. Both our names are unusual. No one ever knew how to spell them. If I did something wrong in our last interaction, I apologize, though I can’t think of what it would be. I really can’t. We ran into each other in a bookstore, the week of graduation. Coincidence. Chatted a bit, then went on with our errands. 

    It had been hard to deal with his absence. Whenever Anne had thought about college, it was always with him. He would be there, just like in high school. After the first year, they would get an apartment and be roommates. He would figure out what he wanted to do, instead of giving his parent’s answer of ‘business school.’ She would figure out what she wanted, beyond the thought of ‘out of this town.’ 

    Maybe he had just done it first. They both had wanted to escape the town, the preconceived notions, the expectations. 

    So many expectations. 

    It had taken a while to realize that their classmates had thought they were dating. It was such a strange thought, as both were quite firmly uninterested in the other. 

    Perhaps that was the reason. It was completely platonic on both sides, but perhaps he had misunderstood by the end. 

    What can a letter really say? There is only so much paper that can fit into an envelope, yet writing too much after such a long time might be a bit off putting. Even if there was no other way of communication except for a disconnected phone for five years. 

    Before coming across the council list, Anne had not thought of him much. Just during little things. The latest was finally moving out of the dorm into an apartment of her own. On the first night, she had been wondering how to arrange a desk in the extra room when the thought hit that this could have been his room. They could have gone job hunting together, filled out grad school applications together, gotten coffee and teased him about his taste in men. 

    At the time, another possibility Anne had been avoiding made its presence known.

    That her friend may have killed himself. 

    It was something both had thought of, back then. Off and on. 

    The depression, of course. It gave them one of many connections. 

    The thing that both had, but was never named. 

    Having a friend could make all the difference in the world. 

    Of course, both had families to return to at the end of the day. 

    He didn’t talk about it much, but she still knew. It was his dad who was the worst. These often lead to the days of silence, of sitting on those stone steps, being near a person who just knew, who had at least an idea, a comparison of what you were going though. Counting down the days until high school ended and they could get away, get the hell out of this town. 

    She could see it eating away at him.

    On their second-to-last interaction, before the bookstore, he told her. He had stood up, expelled all the things held back for so long. At his family. His father. 

After he finished telling her, she did not know what to say. There was nothing to say, really. She had never done anything like that, though Anne had thought of it. The potential consequences were terrifying, though perhaps somewhat warped through intimidation and fear of her mother. Anne looked at him and knew, at this moment, a modified version of these fears was running though his head.    

Then he was gone. 

Then, suddenly, his name, glowing on the computer screen on the city council site, Anne freezing and forgetting her project. Thinking he’s alive he’s alive hes alive hesalive__he’s not dead_

And now, a week later. The card is carefully selected, cover image plain yet tasteful. The words are written, letter is composed, somehow. Address written, checked, double checked. Stamps are placed, one, two, extra. And return address, just in case. 

    She knows it may be a different person, both literally and figuratively. She knows its a business address, posted a year ago. An official business, where others may open personal mail, or even throw it away before it even reaches him. That he may open it, see the name, and throw it away. That he may not even open it. That he may not be there, and it is stuck in a file somewhere, to gather dust for years until a new secretary going through papers recycles it. That he may read it and be angry, wanting to forget those years. That the letter may never even reach its destination, lost in the system with other dead mail.

    This probably won’t change anything at all. There will likely be no return letter, no call out of the blue, no unexpected knock at the door. No hug, no meeting his boyfriend, no talking about the good times. 

    However.

    She takes this fragile, impossible chance, and drops it through the mailbox.

A well-known speaker started off his seminar by holding up a $20 bill. In the room of 200, he asked, "Who would like this $20 bill?" Hands tarted going up. He said, "I am going to give this $20 to one of you but first, let me do this." He proceeded to crumple the dollar bill up. He then asked, "Who still wants it?" Still the hands were up in the air. "Well," he replied, "What if I do this?" And he dropped it on the ground and started to grind it into the floor with his shoe. He picked it up, now all crumpled and dirty. "Now who still wants it?" Still the hands went into the air. "My friends, you have all learned a very valuable lesson. No matter what I did to the money, you still wanted it because it did not decrease in value. It was still worth $20. Many times in our lives, we are dropped, crumpled, failure, unsuccessful because of the decisions we make and the circumstances that come our way. We feel as though we are worthless. But no matter what has happened or what will happen, you will never lose your value. Always remember, You are special - Don't ever forget it.

Vin Scully The Voice of the L.A. Dodgers

Baseball is the oldest, major professional sport in the United States, and has been called "America's Pastime." It has been in existence since the late 19th Century, and one of its most legendary teams is the Los Angeles Dodgers. The franchise goes back to the mid-1880s when it was known by several names until it became the Dodgers. The Dodgers played much of its history in Brooklyn, New York before moving to Los Angeles in 1957. Since 1958, baseball fans in Los Angeles have had the pleasure of hearing the games as broadcast by the great Vin Scully.

Scully began his career broadcasting Dodgers games while still in New York alongside another legendary broadcaster Red Barber. Scully has been the voice of the team since 1950, and holds the record of 65 years broadcasting for a single team in professional sports history.

He was born in the Bronx, New York on November 29, 1927, and wanted to become a radio broadcaster after listening to football games in his hometown. He served two years in the United States Navy before enrolling into Fordham University majoring in journalism and broadcasting. He was hired by Barber, who served as mentor for the new broadcaster. Barber gave Scully some advice that he has followed throughout his career. Barber said to become a successful broadcaster, you cannot be a homer, which is an announcer who roots for the team he works for. He also told him to keep his opinions out of his broadcasts, and to always be objective. Scully is all that.

The qualities he learned from Barber have served Scully well. He has a narrative style that puts his audience at ease. He was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1982, and continues to broadcast all Dodgers home games. He is a true Los Angeles icon.