Cheap’s “Super Bowl Sunday” off
was mere coincidence, he worked alternate weekends. So what. The kitchen a mess
of course.
Dudine pulled 12 hours like
every Sunday at her front desk vortex in the “Emergency Department” (not just a
room anymore.) All-day drinker breaking a hip at the early buffet, endless rivers
of blood from a busted nose, twisted kid ankle “better check it out before the
game.”
Except for the Latter-Day-Saints,
the nearby churches adjourned punctually, and the town all but shut down by
game time.
There were parties, but he’d
endured far too many hours among drunken men. Still, in a modern electronic way
he joined the fervent worship of Money, the One True God as all the world
understood it. Television silent, he read a book during the three hours of
pomp, analysis, patriotism, pop music, and salesmanship that ruined the hour of
actual playing time. (Books are new technology too!)
In the choreographed battle
of near-equals, no one died; joyous all-inclusive hugs and celebration! Flying
jets advertised beloved military, and signaled “all safe” for ruling empire.
Glistening injuries slow motion, close-up, from every angle, cut to
cheerleaders and more ads.
At half-time a few Saints
still at church; a cruel test of faith!
Cheap’s teen son spent the
day with a girl friend, and an Austrian exchange student they’d befriended,
supervising her autistic big brother. Cancer had just killed her mother. No
dumb American football for these atheists.
Toward game’s end his overfed
mutt threw up, then went back to snack on it, ack! This led to a quiet outdoor
interlude, hanging laundry in the winter afternoon. Cold wind. Innocent blood
on everyone’s hands. Game over, who won?
Skip the analysis, sweep the
kitchen.
So,
what?
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