le fabuleux destin d’amelie patisserie.

after a night spent sleeping in one’s car, waking with each passing vehicle or barking dog or imagined footstep, unable to return to sleep at dawn — the windshield glass intensifying the sun’s heat — one seeks a place to relax, indoors. the place needs to serve great food, provide free wireless internet, and, above all, never close. it’s not just a method of killing time while waiting for something else to open or just an escape from claustrophobia’s grasp: it’s a necessary step, separating one day from the next and signalling to your body that you have awakened, ready to produce.

my recommendation, if one requires such a site in charlotte, falls solely on amelie’s french bakery. they offer a selection of seasonal soups, like tomato fennel and farmhouse butternut squash and spinach asparagus leek, which are made fresh daily from local ingredients. they also serve sandwiches and tartines (basically, open-faced sandwiches topped with, for example, ham and melted gruyere cheese) on fresh baguettes.

many come here for the dessert cases, housing an array of pastries, tarts, and cakes. peering into them, you enter a dream state where apricots and peaches perform ballet, pirouetting on the counter in front of you before coquettishly dancing away; caramels following one another up a slide, then gleefully descending, arms raised, into a heated, salt-water pool where they splash around with delight; passion fruit petit fours and coconut macaroons taking turns on the trampoline or riding a ski lift to the top of a mountain, where they strap cinnamon raisin and pecan sticky buns, respectively, to their feet and expertly maneuver their way back down to the chalet.

bright colors shoot forth from every corner and you feel a spinning sensation. when your equilibrium returns, you notice a table to your right you hadn’t seen previously, a lingering symptom of your reverie. atop is a teapot, colored a pastel green, and a ramekin of creme brulee. a thin-lipped girl sits quietly, the faint trace of dimples on her cheeks, her skin pale as milk, made whiter still by the jet black of her hair, which ends just below her ears, and her dark eyes. positioned in her hand, a spoon, and you watch her close her eyes, breathe out deeply, and gently crack the crust of her creme brulee. her face becomes serene, as if an act of catharsis has taken place.

you leave, contemplating the small wonders of life and thinking of elaborate ways to impact the lives of others, becoming a sort of guardian angel, bringing them joy and satisfaction. just then you hear a ringing noise and, for the first time, notice a phone booth beside your car. you hold the receiver to your ear, but, before speaking, an old metal box catches your eye. you whip your head around, sensing that someone is watching you, but no one is there. your eyes brim with tears as you open the box and remember the tile in your childhood bathroom that you once hid it behind. you leaf through the memorabilia within, remembering happy events long forgotten, awash in emotion.

basically that’s how this place makes me feel every visit.

one day at a time.

i began watching twenty four as a sort of game: my dad would record it to view with my sister at a more convenient time mid-week, i’d arrive at the house late monday night, watch it, and then drop subtle hints about the plot all the next day. more often than not, i would lie about the twists, making the show more suspensful for them, as they waited for the scenes i described, never knowing if i was telling the truth.

furthermore, i began watching during the time period the story was actually taking place: as the series progressed, i waited until three am and then four the next week and five the following one before pressing play. i wanted to immerse myself in the role, like a character actor, and really understand the timeline in case i was ever asked to thwart a coup attempt or infiltrate an enemy camp (though, honestly, if a (trojan) horse can do it, how difficult can it be?).

there is one thing that bothers me: no one ever trusts kiefer sutherland. even when he is relying solely on instinct, his theories are always correct, yet, at least once every episode, he is detained by security, slowing his one-man mission and further endangering the lives of the many he strives to protect. sure, along the way there are those who back him up, but their support isn’t consistent and their voices are seldom loud enough to make a difference. he’s constantly beaten up and imprisoned by people whom, just last week (actually approximately sixty minutes ago in their real time), he saved in some way.

seriously, police officers and fbi agents, as well as members of the house of representatives, senate, and the white house, his voice introduces each hour of the program, his face is on the cover of every season’s dvd box set, one of which, for crying out loud, prominently features the american flag as if to suggest, this guy is a true patriot. please, in the future, think about these things before lifting your walkie talkies to announce an all-points bulletin. my life is at stake here.

the proverbial tiger in the bathroom.

at my dad’s birthday dinner he mentioned wanting to see the hangover. my sister was taken aback at first, detailing my dad’s history with movies, how he turned off from dusk till dawn after one minute thirty seconds because it had already grossly exceeded his fuck quota, how he would fastforward through scenes of kissing, and how he still didn’t want us to watch pretty woman.

she had forgotten, however, that human beings can be complicated creatures, unable to be reduced to a sum of their tolerances. i pointed out that he liked american pie an awful lot, and he burst into laughter, reminiscing about teen sex comedies. through the chuckles we heard, when that guy porks the pie, then something indecipherable before emphasizing, he’s porking the pie.

it was a good moment to interrupt, if only to block him from saying pork again in that connotation, so i proceeded with something that had struck me as peculiar earlier, namely the contents of his dvr. around four am the reality show about video game players i had been watching stopped, a message box alerting me that, in order to continue, i would have to cancel one of the programs being recorded. other than me, i thought, who would be taping one show at this hour, let alone two? i scanned the database to determine if they were absolutely necessary, or if i could delete one and go back to viewing the white-knuckled action of people competing to be the best at guitar hero, fingering the chords methodically, without facial expression or emotion, as if their bones had fused with the instrument and they were one with the system.

listed were six or seven porn titles, like gangbangs of new york, ocean’s eleven inches, thirteen going down on thirty, how stella got her tube packed, and, um, mating to sex-hale (okay, these were not the real titles — they were more uninspired, like love beach seven or pillar of romance three or girls on the run). at dinner i brought this up. had my dad, in the absence of my mother, turned to poorly-written scripts and characters that were not fleshed out (pardon the pun)? the truth, although it made my father appear really naive, was much more believable and, thankfully, more amusing. he had recorded the movies because he couldn’t comprehend how pornography could possibly be freely broadcast on television. he had viewed a few minutes of each (i’m not sure why exactly he kept going after he turned the first off) and discovered to his amazement that, yes, they were indeed allowed to show nudity and some amount of sexual engagement.

sometime between my late night/early morning inspection and dinner he had erased the contents of the dvr, entering his sixth decade on the earth a little wiser about man’s inclinations and the scope of technology.

animal identification team.

so, yeah, there is some kind of dead animal there, maybe an armadillo, anyway, who cares what it is. this declaration, delivered abruptly and dispassionately, was an attempt to leaven the enthusiasm i displayed while telling the story, but, of course, her interest was further piqued. she answered, you have to go back — and i’m coming with you.

we drove together as the events i had just finished describing to her repeated in my head. namely, while knocking on the front door loudly i was startled by movement behind and above me. wrens had built a nest in the porch’s overhang, and the mother bird had moved swiftly to an adjacent tree to chastise me. next her young tumbled to the ground near my feet and tried to hide itself, awkwardly fluttering into the patchy bushes that lined the house.

i weighed that which had transpired, determining that i was responsible for the baby bird. after all, it was forced into this world, before it was prepared, due to my error. however, before i could act as a surrogate — teaching it how to fly, passing nourishment from my beak to its darting tongue, keeping it warm when the temperature dropped — i had to find it. on hand and knees i pulled back tiny branches to get a glimpse within and beneath. i combed the area gingerly, nothing escaping my sight, until something stopped me and i jumped to my feet. just beyond where i was patting the ground sat a large oval mass of fur.

it was too large to be a rat; it’s posture was inconsistent with a sleeping cat curled into a ball. my best guess was that it was a furry armadillo. i was convinced that it had consumed the bird i was charged with protecting, which left me reeling with paroxysms of sadness broken only when my friend arrived home. she suggested that we follow the protocol pertaining to these situations. that is, we poke the unknown creature (she had summarily struck down my armadillo-judgment) with a stick. she, being braver than me, leaned toward the dead animal, nudging it. she jumped back, insisting that the carcass released a foul odor, and i was inclined to believe her as my own sense of smell is not well developed. we parted, she going to work and i to lunch, hoping that the scent wouldn’t linger and, moreover, something larger would carry the source away.

on the return trip, i was scared. not only had i failed at mothering a bird but i had further alienated myself from the spirit world by disrupting one’s final resting place. at this point, i thought, i may as well build a house on an indian burial ground. i imagined an eagle pecking out my liver for all of eternity. on the other hand, i had gone this far, so, upon arrival, i grabbed a stick and walked with purpose, hand covering my nose, toward the spot. i prodded the animal, finding it tougher than expected, as if it were in the process of turning to stone from the inside.

as my courage peaked, i noticed something peculiar and threw the stick aside. i gasped, reaching to grasp the object and retrieve it. the peculiarity i had spotted was a small white tag attached to the leg of a stuffed hedgehog, muddy and water-logged.

i sent my friend a text telling her i’d gone back to her house to find that the animal was a large hedgehog. i told her i had set it on her porch for her. for the next few hours i received messages berating my actions. of course i’m angry; you left a corpse on my steps. why can’t you call someone to pick it up?

later she phoned from home to call me a fucking asshole. she had approached cautiously and then laughed while again wedging the stuffed animal between the house and bushes where it belonged.

every city has its own jersey shore.

i don’t understand why guys dress the way they do to go out to a bar or club. i’m not talking about the ones who don’t care, wearing khaki cargo shorts and tennis shoes, because no amount of tutoring and guidance is going to bring forth their salvation. my confusion is directed towards the guys who spend time in front of the mirror, applying gel to their short hair and putting on a tight t-shirt with writing about death or some sort of apocalyptic event, about retribution and revenge; in other words, things that keep you up at night, worrying. the shirts are often embellished with sequins or strips of leather, as if they were produced by a first-year art student still learning the mechanics of collaging, and intentionally stained in patches (most notably under the arms — a wise decision with how much these guys sweat).

you may see them in the corner of the room, gently nodding their heads in lax synchronization with the music, a beer cradled in hand. watch them for a few seconds and you’ll see them looking around, as if they’re waiting for someone while simultaneously flexing their muscles (they’re actually interested in who is noticing them). if you’ve ever seen a robed prizefighter on his way to the ring, stretching his neck to the left and right to loosen it and shaking his arms to encourage the flow of blood, then you’ve got an idea. i wouldn’t be surprised if part of their routine in preparing themselves for a night out, after crushing a six-pack of red bull, was to massage baby oil into their biceps to make them glisten even in poorly-lit rooms.

if they can find a button-front shirt to fit across their massive backs, they’ve invariably chosen a white one with a design in black embroidery (or maybe a white tonal stripe to differentiate the shirt from their other one with buttons). these guys are proud of their pectorals, unfastening the shirt until they bulge forth and gleam like a gladiator’s armor. bump into them accidentally and you face almost certain death, especially if you cause them to spill a drink. these are the guys that are interested in getting wasted and knocking out some dude’s teeth first and then, as a distant second, an afterthought, escorting an equally-inebriated lady home with them.

together they stand at the bar in groups, counting those around them, ordering jager bombs for their buddies and the hapless girls who have followed them. they down them quickly and high five or thrust their fists in the air like they have just pulled someone’s still-beating heart from their chest or they roughly grab a girl and press their lips against hers in the least romantic way possible. while performing one or more of these actions they bellow — one of those world-domination roars, like a lion enforcing his position as king of the jungle.

facebook is proof that they pose for a lot of pictures: mugging at the camera, often red-faced, their thick necks tilted to the side due to the weight of their friends’ arms around them. they wear sunglasses indoors and have the tips of their hair frosted. they talk about how they have a vip table with bottle service, as if overspending on liquor is a badge of honor, demanding respect. towards the end of the night they meet on the dance floor for more fist pumping, sometimes becoming aggressive, shoving each other and laughing at any collateral damage.

honestly, i don’t know what to say to these guys, though, i agree it’s naive of me to think they’re reading this writing. i doubt they realize how close they come to becoming caricatures, how tiresome their antics become, how unenviable their positions are. sometimes i like to pretend that one wakes up suddenly on a predetermined day, looks in the mirror and stands aghast at a visage of manicured facial hair, slowly weeping while shaving before crumpling to the bathroom floor, promising never to repeat these transgressions.

the ground beneath her feet.

i met her for lunch at a mexican restaurant near her house. it was the first time i’d seen her since i spent the night four days previously. that morning i’d been awakened briefly by a loud noise before drifting back to sleep, ruling that she had knocked over a hair dryer or similar device in the bathroom and that i had nothing to worry about but catching some more zzz’s.

i woke up again with her sitting on the edge of the bed looking confused and speaking sporadically, as if she were uncomfortable with the english language. i pieced together her false starts and mumbled phrases, repeating questions until i got an intelligible answer, eventually deciphering that she had had a seizure in the hallway, hitting her head when she fell. she suffered a concussion as a result. the rest of the day was spent in the hospital undergoing a battery of neurological tests.

she had never experienced anything like this before, and, as a consequence, i wasn’t sure how to approach her. i ended up taking the less tactful route. over a plate of arroz con pollo which was still too hot to touch, i began listing the hockey players whose careers ended prematurely as a result of too many hits to the head, some who had enjoyed a few very productive years before crisscrossing over the middle, puck on the blade of their stick, with their head down; others who had such promise, high draft picks who never even made it to the national hockey league because of a jarring blow to the head.

the outcome of her tests was largely inconclusive, but, at any rate, the doctors told her that it was nothing to worry about. her fall was an isolated incident that likely would never be repeated. i told her to proceed cautiously, warning her that science was imperfect, uncertain, and perplexing. she laughed nervously as i continued, comparing a concussion to an earthquake (i had read a book by salman rushdie where he had made a similar connection between strokes in the heart and earthquakes, so i figured i was in safe territory, speaking about facts, albeit cold and hard ones).

i said an earthquake, even minor rumblings that do not cause much damage, leaves a mark on the earth, rendering it forever vulnerable. once hit, the potential for another strike remains tucked away, promising to return with more devastating force. i took a sip of horchata, a milky-looking drink made from ground rice, almonds, and cinnamon, hoping that the pause would tone down my message, making it more palatable, less a doomsday prediction than a concerned friend who often gets carried away once he begins with a theory or a joke. all i knew is that i could not stop yet, before i had finished my analogy and united the two events based on this conceived similarity.

your head is the same way, you know? sure, everyone is telling you that you’ve escaped unscathed and you need not change your life in any way, but buried somewhere in your brain or skull or spinal cord (i told her i wasn’t sure which option since i’m not a surgeon) there was a tiny indelible imprint containing the scribbled details of the occurrence, sort of like microfiche. one night she would fall asleep, tucked into a warm bed, calm and whole, only to wake up the next morning bewildered and unsure of how she had arrived in the hallway. some part, an echo of her past, would be missing, like california drifting off into the pacific ocean.

i repeated the last line about california again for impact and partly because i liked the sound of it and was starting to have fun. we asked the waitress to box our remaining food, then walked back to her car, with me acknowledging that i had not delivered the motivational message i had envisioned. my only hope was that she had forgotten most of it as she was still foggy from the fall (that is, if she were a hockey player, she would have to sit out a few more games while her concentration returned and the headaches subsided).

maybe she would only recall that a guy who once treated her to lunch talked passionately about earthquakes and athletes while she ate.

birthdays in wartime.

today would have been my mother’s fifty-fifth birthday. instead she died, as many of you know, in january. i take some amount of pleasure from your momma jokes, especially informing the person once the punchline is delivered that my mother has passed away. i enjoy the awkward moment created much more than the apologies that ensue. certainly none of them were the cause of her demise. they were merely responsible for a bad joke, which is not a punishable offense, or else i’d be writing this from humor death row, which is to say nothing about where david sedaris would be.

recently a friend told me her mother wasn’t doing well and that she may have to move in with her. i remained empathetic, even after learning the lady was in her seventies (seriously, people, how long do we expect our parents to live?). after all, i myself had basically moved in with my mother toward the end and it allowed us to gain some closure, if such a thing is honestly possible. we continued the conversation as i learned that not doing well meant she hasn’t paid her mortgage in a year and was risking foreclosure. perhaps i’m being too harsh, i’ll acknowledge, and this represents the actual definition of someone old not doing well. it’s certainly possible that some unfortunate turns and unlucky breaks have skewed my mind to the point that i hear six months to live when someone means may have to move to an apartment. oh, and one on the first floor at that because, did i tell you about her ankle? well, she sprained it cleaning the garage and it’s still bothering her. that was two weeks ago — can you believe it?

i took this incident, as i have all those concerning life and death in the past year, to my sister for further study. she said that it annoyed her when friends talked about their mothers, when they complained about them and when they celebrated them, when they rolled their eyes while talking to their moms on the telephone and when they answered gleefully telling their moms they’d see them soon. honestly, don’t even get her started about her friends’ grandparents — it’s unfathomable to her that our peers can have so many relatives remaining while we are ostensibly half-orphans.

i don’t think i share my sister’s (quiet) rage. inside me exists a mix of bewilderment and indifference. on one hand i’m shocked by the different levels of doomsday predictions and their meanings conjured (and felt) by other people, and, on the other hand, i don’t care about the problems of others, whether real or imagined. the latter, i feel the need to explain, because i have a hard time quantifying the problems, placing them along a reasonable scale, so i just list them all beside each other, where someone’s declaration that they lost a ten-dollar bill while walking to work occupies the same space as someone else having to have a piece of their hip removed in order to reconstruct parts of their face. i’m no longer able to question what is worse — it doesn’t matter, as long as each person treats it as devastating. i’ve let people be themselves and speak, where i listen sometimes in a semi-daze, wondering how it’s possible that their thoughts could diverge so much from mine.

my sister confided with me recently that she’s no longer able to cry. it seems pointless. further she said if she developed cancer right now she wouldn’t care. i think we’ve learned, all too hard, the absurdity of life, how devastating it can weigh on you but also how you have to adapt, poking fun at its inconsistencies, preparing yourself for anything, and finding humor in the inadequate sources you can. such as:

your momma’s so fat that whenever she goes to the beach the tide comes in

or

your momma’s so poor that she goes to kentucky fried chicken to lick other people’s fingers

anyway, happy birthday, mom. i wish we could have spent thousands more with you.

a cautionary tale about cougars.

(the following was printed in the fall 2009 issue of stir magazine and represents the first time i received payment for a piece of writing)

this is how they do it:

they make some benign comment about men their own age. for instance, in passing, she’ll mention the high-ranking executive with whom she’s recently broken up and how at dinner he once told her she’d look better with more makeup. before you have time to respond, she’ll emit a sound of disgust and say that he lacked spunk and wasn’t spontaneous enough for her.

it’s difficult to look at someone close to your mom’s age and tell her, straight out, that it’s her fault she remains single. you want to suggest that maybe if she tried applying some foundation to brighten her skin and subtle eyeshadow to emphasize her eyes, which, admittedly, are really nice, her problems would disappear; perhaps men her age become more rigid because she meets them for dinner with hair disheveled. it’s not as if you believe in anachronistic roles for men and women, you just think it’s polite to look like you put effort into dressing up when you’re eating an expensive meal with someone whom you are affectionate toward. for now you’ll conceal your values and reply with a knowing nod that betrays your youth and tell her that you think she looks fine just the way she is (and, anyway, it’s true).

look at this from another angle though. for a moment, take the view that the woman who is asking you about her appearance is not only close to your mom’s age but is hypersexual. suddenly you’re no longer merely giving her relationship advice. instead you’re playing an awkward game of cat and mouse where the mouse (you) is blind and the cat’s house smells like cheese (i know, it’s a terrible comparison and worse simile, but work with me on this).

by day, she works as a physician or lawyer or widow with inherited fortunes (she’ll let you know which is the case as soon as you begin talking with her), but at night she wears as a dress a piece of clothing that was originally sold as a shirt. it’s extremely form fitting and features a combination of writing about dark subjects, with cyrillic thrown in for good measure, and images, including at least one of the following: hawks, swords, religious iconography, or skulls. she talks quickly, with a kind of chirping cadence, in order to confuse you and appear much younger than her years. in short, she is on the prowl.

i’ll tell you that all older women do not look like demi moore. but, then again, you yourself are no ashton kutcher, even if you did once bring a picture of him in to your hairstylist. maybe you’re still intrigued. as is said, appearances are not always what they seem. for instance, maybe you don’t realize that two of the toes on mr. kutcher’s left foot are fused together (yeah, i read an unauthorized biography, but not because i’m obsessed with him or anything).

i’m still going to attempt to dissaude you from continuing when she denounces men her age, not because i necessarily think persuing her is a bad idea, but, more so, because i like assuming the role of the voice of reason. in the future, simply tell her to keep putting herself out there, sooner or later she’ll find someone who can match her spontaneity and overall lust for life. it’s not you, though, so excuse yourself and walk away. do not, under any circumstances, stick around as she tells you she lives in the same building as your friend and then suggests that you knock on her door the next time you visit.

whatever you do, don’t joke with her. she has no time for humor. don’t tell her that one of the biggest draws of your friend’s apartment is that he has a drum set and ask if hers has similar amenities.

she’ll smile, the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes resembling a map of tributaries leading into the mississippi river, oh, so you’re looking for something to bang.

really, i’m a fungi to be around.

i am a very sensitive person. through the years i’ve weathered all manner of bizarre ailments from sun poisoning after riding in a tube down the dan river (my fellow tubers referred to this condition as beaver fever, a name unused outside our polytheistic past when evil spirits were thought to cause all illnesses) to ingrown hairs quietly becoming inflamed metropolises, from large blisters festering on my palms after merely taking a two-hour golf lesson at a driving range (insert your preferred joke about tightly-gripped shafts here) to an almost ceaseless supply of canker sores due to minor immune imbalances.

the latest chronic skin irritation — tinea versicolor — to strike is undoubtedly my favorite mostly because the name reminds me of rainbows. it’s caused by malassezia globosa (even that sounds cool (i’m so lucky)), a yeast that occurs naturally on the skin of many animals including humans, that only becomes troublesome under certain circumstances like a warm and humid environment, though the reasons behind the initial outbreak are not understood.

the yeast feeds on skin oils and dead skin cells and appears as small circular patches of discolored skin (on light skin such as my own, the spots are darker, like dark pink or tan with a reddish undertone). it is thought to have been brought from the amazon river by peter elam, an american engineer who was developing clean water in poor villages.

it can disappear and reappear throughout the course of one’s life. some treatments, such as coating affected areas in selsun blue shampoo (which i’ve tried with some success) and waiting ten minutes before rinsing have show efficacy as well as other topical antifungal medications (yeast infection solutions, et cetera). there are also medications only available with a prescription that administer higher doses that suppress growth, lessen inflamation, or can even remove the problem completely.

let me add this bit of information before concluding: it is in no way contagious. many of those that have come into contact with me over the years have lived long fruitful lives, free of sickness and full of vigor. if i hadn’t already used the fungi joke in the subject, i would use it now. instead i have to fall back on a vastly inferior reference to rainbows and suggest that somewhere near me lies a pot of gold, to be shared in a way that we all become richer, more productive people, regardless of our many unexplained infections.

the hardwood club.

we turned into an underground parking lot beneath the arena, lined with newly-waxed black cars. handing off the keys to the valet, she turned to us and said, they wash your car during the game. we continued through the arch of a metal detector, entering the building where the charlotte bobcats were about to play their last home game of the season against the philadelphia seventy-sixers. everyone came up to greet us as we walked along the concrete floors in the bowels of the coliseum, then passed through a curtain, finding our seats between the visitor’s bench and scorekeeper’s table.

they had purchased the tickets one night out of boredom, looking for something to do at night. they bought two extra so they could entertain friends. everyone was so polite to them that we felt it worth mentioning, as if they hadn’t noticed. they told us that that year before they had been invited on a road trip to minnesota, aboard the team jet, because they had always stopped to talk to everyone associated with the organization, and that was their reward, they supposed, for being generous with their time.

they lead us toward a restaurant full of season ticket holders, and we inquired if that was where we were headed. no, that club has three hundred members; ours has thirty. after talking with the ushers assembled in the doorway, we passed into a small room with three high tables in the middle and plush chairs along the outside. there was a chef slicing prime rib and a buffet counter with trays of asparagus, mashed potatoes, rolls, and corn-on-the-cob. we filled our plates turning to the bar where a man asked us if we wanted a single or double. what’s the price difference?, my friend asked, in similar amazement at being brought here as a guest. they’re both free, was the reply. we both ordered doubles and a shot of whiskey, also at no charge. while we ate, we took note of a man asking if the chef could put his prime rib on a roll, and she obliged.

we returned to our seats for the first quarter, players standing within feet of us as they waited to be substituted into the game. i glanced at the computer to my right, then announced to the group a team’s shooting percentage or how a certain player already had two fouls. when the buzzer sounded, we returned to the club, choosing a prime rib sandwich, another double, and an accompanying shot. it was getting warm, so our hosts suggested placing our jackets in their locker. we went down the row of lockers, reading the names — so-and-so motorsports, the blank corporation, this-and-that incorporated (not actual company names) — until we arrived at theirs, merely listed under their surname. also, they had two.

we continued in this pattern: watching some basketball and returning to the club for drink refills. during halftime we stepped outside. we helped ourselves to the pile of candy left for the players on the announce table. late in the game, after someone running the length of the court lofted his gum toward the desk, we even advised the other players to watch their step. during the fourth quarter, aided by the free drinks and, likely also, by the idea that we were in a dream, we stood up, alternating between shouting encouragement to the home team and lambasting the referees for their botched calls.

at the end of the game, we told our hosts that we would like to tell our friends about our night but no one would believe us. my knowledge of basketball hadn’t increased much. i knew a few more names and a few more statistics thanks to my seating position (by the way, raymond felton scored a career high thirty-two points). most importantly, the bobcats won by three, so now i’m seen as a lucky charm or talisman to be welcomed to games next season.