Coffee House Chronicles: The Humidor, The Puppy, and Aaron Robert
Good morning, Chroniclers. How ya feelin'? Got yer cup? Good. You might want to top it off. This one got away from me.
It's been an eventful week. Actually, I'm only starting on Friday, and we're already in danger of running long.
Tenille invited me and a few of the fellows over for sticks and libation. As you know, I've never once declined a perfectly good opportunity to sit around and solve none of the world's problems.
I was the first one to arrive at Tenille's place, which is remarkable because I also live the farthest away. There were no fewer than three crashes between my house and his. Everybody and their momma was headed either to Vegas or the river.
The final crash was on the only road leading to Tenille's mansion.
When I pulled up, the red-jacketed valet didn't even blink when I handed him the keys to my '72 AMC Gremlin.
"Please be careful," I told him. "I don't want any additional dents."
"Not to worry, sir," he replied. "We'll park it close."
Professional.
Tenille's instructions were to head straight through the house and into the backyard. I walked out and found him tending the grill.
"Hey, Hero," he said. "Don't worry. Yours is separate."
I wasn't sure how offended I should be.
"What's separate?"
"Jamaican jerk chicken."
I asked the question I always ask.
"Is it spicy?"
"A little."
Now, Tenille answered that question with the same tone a zookeeper uses when somebody asks if they can pet the tiger.
"I'll try it," I said.
"Okay..." he replied in a warning sing-song voice that I'm choosing to find offensive.
Everybody thinks they know me.
Turns out everybody knows me.
Tenille was right.
One bite of that chicken launched me directly toward the refrigerator, looking for a gallon of 2%.
I'm pretty sure milk has never moved that fast.
Luckily, The Captain was there.
Tenille had declared this a men's gathering and apparently thought that meant chicken wings and barbecue sauce were the complete menu.
The Captain took one look at the operation.
"You think the fellows might want some baked potatoes?"
"Oh, good idea," Tenille said, pretending he'd been moments away from suggesting exactly that.
Then she followed up.
"I'll make a salad too."
"Hmm. You think?" Tenille wondered, as if he'd recently returned from a six-month nutritional research expedition.
One by one the fellows started arriving, all of them wide-eyed from surviving the crash-filled obstacle course required to reach the house.
The first topic of conversation was, of course, the accidents.
The second topic was cigars.
The Professor absolutely lit up.
You see, he's recently become a man of distinction.
A man of culture.
A man with a humidor.
He's no longer content sitting on the porch waiting for the big dogs. No sir.
He proudly announced he'd purchased himself a humidor and stocked it with three whole cigars.
Three.
The man now owns exactly as many cigars as most people own television remotes.
He sat there sipping ginger beer while discussing guns, cigars, and craft beer with the confidence of a retired duke.
The Right Reverend Doctor showed up shortly thereafter.
The Rev treats his body like a temple.
A very strict temple.
No cigars for him.
Instead, he clinked ginger beer cans with The Professor, and the two of them toasted like they were closing a major international trade agreement.
Commander McCroc was there too.
He proudly unveiled his latest rubber shoe conquest.
The things were bright yellow and decorated with sunshine, rainbows, and what appeared to be unicorn accessories.
Apparently, he originally requested actual unicorns.
Mrs. Scrubbles intervened.
And that's why every successful military operation requires civilian oversight.
The evening was fantastic.
Good conversation.
Good fellowship.
Good food.
Just enough cigar smoke to make a person feel sophisticated despite discussing absolutely nothing important.
Looking forward to the next one, fellas.
The only time I'm effectively a widower is tax season.
And fantasy football season.
Saturday was draft day.
The HB's and her Big Sis participate every year despite the unfortunate reality that Sis doesn't actually know football.
Or Zoom.
Or apparently the names of football players.
She couldn't get on the Zoom call, so she called me, on my phone, three different times. To speak with the HB
This is what I mean about Sis and technology. Why call me?
The HB was seated in another room with her phone, tablet, laptop, and enough electronics to launch a satellite.
I can only imagine a conversation between the HB and her Big Sis about football. Have you seen the meme on the Interwebs?
"I love football," Sharon will say.
"Who's your favorite player?" The HB will counter.
"Aaron Robert."
"Aaron Rodgers."
"Never heard of him."
"He was the quarterback for the Jets."
"So was Aaron Robert!"
"Ugh. Who else?"
"Patrick Macombs."
"Mahomes."
"He's my homie too."
"Anybody else?"
"T.J. What."
"Watt."
"What?"
"Watt."
"Whatever."
"Anybody else?"
"Jalen Hearse."
"Hurts."
"He's hurt? What happened?"
"No. His name is Hurts."
"So he is hurt."
"No."
"You lied."
By this point, the HB was reconsidering several life choices.
Then Big Sis delivered her masterpiece.
"I also like Christopher McCaffrey."
"Christian."
"Really? Me too. I turned my life over to the Lord back in 2015."
There's simply no overcoming that kind of confidence.
The Zoom call itself was pure chaos.
Twelve adults.
Zero functioning mute buttons.
Every manager was talking to somebody else in the room.
Their partners.
Kids.
Dogs.
Imaginary assistant general managers.
One guy was probably arguing with his television.
Nobody knew how to pronounce the player names.
Nobody knew positions.
Half of them didn't know their own team names.
The commissioner's assistant, my sister-in-law, was trying to assign the teams to the draft board, and I think she briefly considered walking into the ocean.
What a beautiful tradition.
Meanwhile, Pretty Boy Floyd and Crime Crusher Jr. recently learned their mom got a new puppy.
You met Bruno in the last Chronicles.
We've had him for four days now.
In those four days, he's already visited the vet twice.
That's more medical attention than I received during most of my childhood.
The vet took one look at him and said, "I don't think this puppy is eight weeks old."
Turns out Bruno was probably closer to five weeks and was separated from his mom too early.
Poor little guy spent all day Friday getting intravenous fluids.
The good news?
He's bouncing back.
Happy.
Playful.
Acting like a puppy again.
When Floyd and Crusher heard about the HB's new dog, Crusher immediately started processing old trauma.
"Mom gives away dogs faster than she..."
He paused.
Probably because he enjoys living.
Apparently both our households and the Captain & Tenille's have children carrying similar emotional scars.
The Captain told us that if her kids ever wanted to revisit puppies she'd previously purchased for them, they'd have to go speak with the crossing guard.
That's where some of them apparently ended up.
Anyway, Floyd looked at Crusher and asked,
"What's the dog's name?"
Then immediately reconsidered.
"You know what? Don't tell me. I don't want to get attached."
Crusher nodded.
"Smart."
"You don't think he'll be here next week?"
Crusher replied, "I already know his name."
"Oh yeah? What's that?"
"Fina'u."
"Fina'u? Like a Pacific Islander?"
"Yep."
"Really?"
"Yep. Because he's only here for now. Tomorrow? Who knows."
The kid didn't even crack a smile.
Just delivered the line and moved on.
Absolutely ruthless.
Well, that's it for Chronicles this week.
Take care of yourselves.
Be kind to each other.
Don't eat Jamaican jerk chicken without emergency dairy nearby.
And remember:
Drink 'em if you got 'em.
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