Recognition, by John Sorensen (Guest Blogger)

“You see that guy over there?” Harvey asked his wife.

“Which guy?” she asked.  “There’s guys all over the place.”

“The guy missing the leg.  He’s sitting right over there,” he said, nodding to narrow her search around the restaurant.

“How do you expect me to see someone’s legs when they’re sitting down?”

“Jesus, Mary, he’s the guy with fucking crutches leaning against the table,” Harvey said, his voice raising, as was often the case when she failed to catch on quickly.

“Oh, yeah, I see him,” she said.  “So what?  And keep it down.  It’s still too early for you to start embarrassing yourself.”

“Okay, okay,” he said.  “You see him though, right?”

“Yes, I see him,” she said.  “Do you know the guy?”

“No, I don’t know him,” Harvey said, reaching for his beer, “but that’s the guy that’s been on the news.  The one who lost his leg last month.”

“He’s been on the news?” she asked.  “How do you know that?”

“Because I watch the fucking news,” Harvey said after taking in a mouthful of Miller.

“Okay, okay,” she said.  “So what was he on the news for?”

“For losing his fucking leg,” Harvey said.  “Jesus, Mary, you don’t remember me telling you about that?  It happened about a month ago.  He was on his bike, over by Powell, and was about to cross when a truck took the turn and tore the guy’s leg right off.  It was all over the news.”

“Oh,” she said, her eyes widening in recognition.  “That’s the guy?”

“Yeah, that’s the guy,” Harvey said, reaching for his beer again.  “That’s the guy I was telling you about.  He’s been all over the news.”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember now.  Are you sure that’s him?” she asked, narrowing her eyes as she stared across the room.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Harvey said, turning in his chair to get a better look.  “Yeah, that’s him alright.”

“Well, should we say something to him?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Harvey said after taking another drink.  “Maybe.”

“Jesus, Harvey.  I was kidding.  What would we even say to him?”

“I don’t know,” Harvey said.  “Maybe just tell him we know who he is or that we saw him on the news.  He doesn’t seem too upset about the whole thing.”

“Of course he’s upset about it, Harvey.  The guy lost his leg.”

“Yeah, of course he’s upset about it.  Who wouldn’t be?  I’d be pissed.”

“I’d probably kill myself,” she said.

“Of course you would,” he said.  “I just meant that he seems to be taking it fairly well, given the circumstances.  I bet people talk to him all of the time about it.  He was on the fucking news for almost a month.”

“That is a long time,” she agreed.  “I was on the news once.”

“You were never on the news,” Harvey said, gesturing to a waitress for another beer.

“Yes I was,” she said.

“When?  When were you on the fucking news, Mary?”

“Well, I wasn’t on, but they interviewed me once.  I told you about this.  I was in the car, and it was in the middle of that heat wave a few years back, and I was at a stop sign at the grocery store and they knocked on my window and asked me about the weather.”

“They asked you about the weather?”

“Yeah, yeah, they asked me about the weather,” she said.

“Well, what did you say?” he asked.

“I said it was hot out.”

The waitress arrived at the table to drop off Harvey’s beer and cleared away the empties to make way for their dinners, which would be arriving shortly, according to the waitress, and was turning to leave when Harvey placed his hand on her forearm.

“Can I help you, sir?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, gesturing for her to lean in closer, which she did.  “Do you see that guy over there?  The one with the missing leg?”

“Yes, I saw him,” she said.  “He’s been coming in for the past few days.  He’s a very nice man.”

“Do you know who he is?” Harvey asked.

“No,” she said.  “Should I?”

“That’s the guy from the news,” Harvey said.  “The one who lost his leg last month over on Powell.”

“Is it really?” she whispered.  “That was all over the news.”

“Yeah, it was—big story,” Harvey agreed.  “Listen, what’s he drinking?”

“Jesus, Harvey, you don’t have to buy the guy a drink,” Mary said.

“Just shut up,” he said.  “Whatever he’s drinking, give him another on me.  He deserves it.  And bring me one more of those too when you get a chance.”

“Well, it’s not my table, but I’ll find out what he’s drinking and have it taken care of,” the waitress said and walked away.

“Harvey,” his wife said, “don’t you think that might put him on the spot a little?”

“Everyone knows it’s him,” Harvey said, looking around the room.  “No one wants to say anything though.  No one wants to acknowledge him, and that’s a problem.  I mean, look at him.  He lost a leg last month when a truck ran him over, and now he’s here, like nothing happened, just like the rest of us.  I couldn’t do that.”

“I’d probably kill myself,” she said.

“You probably would kill yourself,” he agreed.  “Not me though.  I wouldn’t do that.  I’d learn to live with it, but it would probably take some time.  How does he even get around?  It only happened a month ago.  I couldn’t do that.”

“I bet you could,” Mary said.

“Sure, sure, I’d be way too embarrassed.  You know me.  It’d be like losing a tooth.  Could you imagine losing a tooth and then having to go out in public like that?  I’d be way too embarrassed.”

“John Stanford lost a tooth once.  He didn’t leave his house for days, and even then it was only to go to the dentist to have it fixed.”

“John Stanford needs his whole face fixed,” Harvey said.  “Oh, look, look. She’s bringing him the beer.

Across the room, the man with the missing leg spoke briefly with the waitress, shook his head several times, and finally accepted the bottle, after which she pointed to Harvey, who waved and smiled from across the room.

“I don’t know,” Harvey said, turning back in his chair to face his wife.  “Maybe I would kill myself.”

A Long Way to Fall: Notes on Jumping off a Bridge

           

            Start with shit—human shit. Start with Jay tracking human shit through the emergency room entrance, across the lobby, into the bathroom. Tell them how he stinks the whole place up with the overwhelming stench of fresh feces—the entire hospital, which is supposed to be a safe, sterile environment.

            Flashback to the Allegheny River, to the Kinzua Reservoir, to the bridge you all traveled so far to jump off of. Flashback to Mikey, to how he had a momentary lapse in judgment, to how he believed he could leap like an Olympic long jumper. Tell them how he cracked his shin on the backside of a guardrail—the sharp side of a guardrail. Tell how he fell to the asphalt and shouted, “I can see the bone!”

            Tell them how you could see the bone, how the tight skin over his shin was split, not cut, split, like the dry leather on an old shoe. Tell them how you could momentarily see the white of his bone before the blood, red and dark, began pouring from the wound.

            Tell them how Joey drove a hundred miles an hour to the emergency room, how he weaved in and out of traffic like an ambulance driver, even though Mikey’s condition was far from an emergency. Tell them how Joey said, “I finally have a real reason to drive like this!” Tell them how you arrived at the hospital in record time—the hospital in which Jay would soon track human shit through.

            Bring it back to the present, to Mikey receiving a handful of stitches, to buying booze at a drive-through beer store, to returning to the bridge—the bridge where Mikey split his shin open.

            Describe the bridge, about how it must be a hundred feet above the water, about the ladder leading up to the catwalk underneath, about the human shit covering the lower rungs of the ladder—the human shit Jay stepped in before tracking it up the rungs earlier in the day. Tell them about walking across the catwalk, eighteen wheelers barreling sixty-five miles an hour just above your head, which causes the catwalk to tremble like a ramshackle ride at the carnival. Tell them how you can climb over the rail of the catwalk, down another ladder, and find yourself standing on a concrete pillar sixty feet above the Allegheny River, above the Kinzua Reservoir.

            Tell them how Tex is about to jump blindly off the upstream side of the pillar when some local yokel—some Marine home on leave—says “Whoa, wait a sec, bud. I ain’t ever seen anyone jump off that side before.” Tell them how Tex proceeds to jump off the “usual” side, how his scream seems to last forever, how he hits the water’s surface and swims the forty or so yards back to shore.

            Next, tell them about the Marine, how he jumps after Tex, barefoot and silent. Tell them how when he hits the water he disappears beneath its dark surface, how he doesn’t come up for fifteen seconds, for thirty, for over a minute. Talk about what’s going through your mind, about how you think you just witnessed somebody die, how you don’t know what to do next.

            Hold the suspense, just for a moment, then have the Marine break through the surface of the water. Have his small audience let out a sigh of relief. Have the Marine burst out in laughter before he swims back to shore and disappears up the hill, over the guardrail that Mikey split his shin on and out of your life forever.

            Tell them how Jay and Tex can’t get enough of jumping off the bridge, how they jump, swim to shore, climb the ladder, cross the catwalk, descend the second ladder, stand on the concrete pillar sixty feet above the Allegheny River, above the Kinzua Reservoir, before jumping again, over and over.

            Talk about how you and Josh and Joey stand on the pillar this entire time, watching them jump, trying desperately to build up the nerve to do it yourselves. Tell them how you’ve never jumped off anything nearly that high before, how you look over the edge and vomit from fear. Tell them how Tex calls you all a “bunch of pussies,” how Mikey claims he would jump if it wasn’t for his split shin, about how Jay has only words of encouragement to offer. “It’s easy,” he says. “Just jump. Like this.”

            Tell them about how you realize that traversing back across the catwalk is a more frightening prospect than actually jumping, how you finally find the courage to stand on the edge, how the water appears to be a mile below, how it seems like such a long way to fall. Hold the suspense. Tell them how you finally do it, how you jump off the pillar, how you seem to fall forever, how you scream as loud as you can, how you hit the water with a violent force, how you plunge ten, fifteen, twenty feet underwater, how you hurry back to the surface, how you swim back to the safety of shore.

            Tell them how Josh and Joey chicken out. How they climb back up the ladder, across the catwalk, and down the other ladder—the one covered in human shit. Tell them how Tex rags on them for being “pussies,” how Jay only mentions that they missed out on an incredible experience, how Mikey claims he would have definitely jumped if it wasn’t for his split shin.

            Tell them how Joey tells Mikey that he’s “full of shit,” how Tex says, “No, Jay is full of shit,” how Josh laughs at Tex’s joke, how Jay responds with “At least I jumped off the bridge.”

            End the story with something sentimental. End the story with a quote. Tell them how you’ll never forget that day, how you’ll never forget that bridge, how you’ll always remember a certain five words: “I can see the bone!”

One Week in July in America, 2015

             Last year, around this time, I wrote a blog entitled: “One Week in July in America, 2014.” I thought it might be an interesting social document, to help future generations better understand what a typical week was like in America in 2014. My hope was that a hundred years from then, some future American might grow tired of their virtual reality sex chamber and decide to do some historical research. Perhaps they would pour themselves a large mug of Mountain Dew Crystal Meth Suicide Blast™ soda pop, strap on their Weblet 2®,  and surf Twitoogle Book© for: “What were Americans up to a century ago?” Then maybe, just maybe, they would stumble upon that blog post. Well, a lot has changed since last year. Among other things, weed is now legal, gay marriages are now legal, and Tom Brady is now a proven cheater/liar/horrible human being! With so many changes, I thought it might be fun to do another installment. So, here goes: ONE WEEK IN JULY IN AMERICA, 2014  2015.

            Airplanes. It’s been almost two years since I started dating my girlfriend, Katelin, so I thought it might be time to introduce her to my family and friends from back home. The only problem being: “back home” is over 3,000 miles away. Now, I know that in the future this might not seem like a problem. You simply hop in your Toyota Transpod®, press a button, and poof! you arrive at your destination in less than a millisecond. Well, here in 2015, long distance travel isn’t nearly that efficient. Like livestock, we are packed into giant metal cylinders that are propelled thousands of feet into the air until they reach their destination. Except, you aren’t allowed to reach your destination until you stop at another destination first, where you are forced to wait on the most uncomfortable seats in the world and purchase food that is astronomically priced. They call this a layover, and unfortunately for us, we were laid-over in a city that still thinks that Tom Brady is NOT a cheater/liar/horrible human being! That city is called Boston, and I pray, for the sake of humanity, that in your future, it has been destroyed and replaced with a better city, which calls itself New New York.

            Waterfalls. In the mid-1990’s, an all girl group who called themselves “TLC” recorded a hit song with a popular refrain that said: “Don’t go chasing waterfalls, stick to the rivers and the lakes that you’re used to.” Anybody who’s ever seen a magnificent waterfall knows that TLC was full of shit. Of all the forms H20 can take, waterfalls just might be the best. In Letchworth, and Niagara Falls—less than 100 miles apart from each other—we visited some of the most beautiful waterfalls in the United States. At Niagara Falls, we took a ride on the Maid of the Mist, which brought us so close to the base of the world’s largest falls that we were literally blinded by its spray. It was one of the great moments of my life, one I’m sure the fine women of TLC must have never experienced.

            Games. It can be an exhilarating experience when you first walk into a casino, with all the fountains and bells and lights and fun noises. The one we visited in Niagara Falls even had a live rock n roll band playing on an elevated stage above the gaming floor. But when you take away all those bells and lights and fun noises, all you really have is people feeding money into machines like a reverse ATM. Think about it the next time you go to a casino—it’s probably the most insane thing you will ever lay your eyes on.

            Games. I’m pretty certain in the future men will playing football on horseback with bows and arrows, but here in 2015, the most popular game of summer is baseball. Sure, people might believe the sport is boring, about as exciting as watching paint dry (which itself is a thousand times more exciting than watching soccer), but it is our nation’s pastime, and holds a rich sense of history and tradition unlike any other sport we have. Much of this history and tradition is housed at the Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum in the small town of Cooperstown, NY, which, with a short visit, I was finally able to cross off my bucket list. Induction into the Baseball Hall of Fame, is based upon a player’s record, ability, integrity, sportsmanship, character, and contribution. And, that player must have played at least ten years in the majors. Or, any bum off the street can pay $80 for an annual membership. Which I gladly did. Yes, that’s correct, 2015 is the year I, Jon Penfold, became a member of the Baseball Hall of Fame. Suck it Pete Rose!

            More games. We played games—lots of games. In Upstate New York, there’s not much to do, so people drink, and when people in Upstate New York drink, they like to play games (I think it makes them feel less like alcoholics). While in New York, Katelin and I played games, lots of games. We played slots, blackjack, spinning wheel, corn-hole, billiards, Kan Jam, ring toss, yard beer-pong, trivia, shuffle board, darts, and whiffle ball. And during each of these games, we drank. And the end result of each of these games was me losing. No joke—I lost at every single game I played all week.

            Winning. I hate losing. I hate it more than most things in life. But a funny thing happened when I was visiting New York—I didn’t care if I lost. Not the slightest. Because even though I was losing, it was the people I was losing to, and with, that made the experience more than worthwhile. Sure, I may have lost at the casino, but spending time with my parents was worth every penny. And I may have lost at whiffle ball to a bunch of drunk kids, but it was still wonderful to see my family. And though Katelin and I may have lost to my sister and my friend Josh at shuffle board, and billiards, and darts, seeing the smiles on everyone's faces was a much better victory in itself.

            You see, win or lose, it’s not the destination that makes the trip, it’s the people you get to experience it with. It’s your friends. It's your family. That’s what’s most important. Even in the future, even a hundred years from now, you will still understand this, because without friends, without family, are we even really human?

            Wait, what’s that? In the future, you aren’t human…in the future you are machines. Damn, I knew I should have gone to see Terminator Genisys last week instead of playing so many damn games.

Hotdogs in Heat (An excerpt from "The Road and the River: An American Adventure")

Watching the news over breakfast, on a giant flat screen TV in the hotel’s dining room, the weatherman tells us that it could easily reach 100 degrees today, with the humidity making it feel like 120, the Amazon being the only place in the world with a dew point as high. Jack and I walk out of the hotel and the heat hits with such a force that it feels like we’re entering another world altogether. The air is so thick and so sticky that you’d think maybe—if you could wave your arms and legs fast enough—you might just be able to get off the ground and swim from place to place.

We cut through the Guthrie Theater, mostly to enjoy its air-conditioning, and then head into the heart of downtown. There is a tennis match going on in a city square and we sit for awhile taking in the grunts and groans of two sweaty women battling it out in the grueling heat. We make it through a set before we both admit that we have no interest in tennis.

It’s only mid-afternoon and we start drinking, because after all, we are river men, and when river men are not on the river, that’s what we do; we drink. We hit up a bar where the entire staff is decked out in Minnesota Twins gear. They wear their caps and jerseys with numbers and letters embroidered on the back, spelling out names like Morneau and Mauer, Thome and Nathan. The first game of a doubleheader just finished up and fans begin to trickle into the bar to order postgame celebratory beers.

We hit up a couple more bars, drink a few more drinks, and then buy a pair of tickets from a scalper for the second game of the doubleheader. As soon as we make our way through the gates it becomes apparent just how the people of Minneapolis feel about their sports teams, for even in this record heat, on a Monday night, the stadium is filled to capacity.

We score free baseball caps by filling out fake info on credit card applications, because after all, we are river men and when river men are not on the river, that’s what we do; we con the town’s people. With new tightly-fitted caps, we take our seats along the third base line, high on the upper deck, above the action with a clear view of play, but at such a distance from the game that there’s little chance of a foul ball finding its way this far from a player’s bat.

The sun has begun to set but the heat seems to be sticking around. Earlier, during today’s first game, half a dozen fans were taken to area hospitals for heat-related illnesses. Many players on both teams were given IVs between games to replenish lost fluids. And even though there are water stations situated throughout the stadium, and I’ve drunk my fair share, I still feel as if I’m melting into my seat, becoming one with the folding plastic chair.

The Twins take an early 1-0 lead in the 3^rd from an RBI single off the bat of All-Star catcher Joe Mauer, and it’s around this time that I see an advertisement on the jumbotron that says every Monday is $1 hot dog day. I immediately find the nearest concession stand and slap a five-dollar bill down on the counter. “Five hot dogs,” I say. Now, I know that a dollar for a hot dog may not seem like that great of a deal, but for those of you who do not attend many games, you must understand that it’s probably the greatest deal in the entire world of professional sports. Today’s stadiums have a tendency to inflate their prices at astronomical rates. A single beer is usually more expensive than an entire six-pack at a convenience store, and the price they charge for a small bag of peanuts could get you enough in the bulk section of any grocery to feed an elephant. You’d think that their soda prices would calculate into being the most expensive way anybody could possibly purchase sugar; that is until you see their cost for cotton candy. And as for the hot dogs, on any other day of the week, they would cost $6 apiece, so tonight I’m getting them at an 83% discount!

The Indians take a 2-1 lead in the 5^th and Minnesota quickly answers back in the 6^th, tying it up with a 381 foot home run from Valencia, his 11^th of the season. I return to the concession stand and buy five more hot dogs and a single beer that is more expensive than all the food combined. I try giving some of the dogs away to the fans in the neighboring seats but nobody seems as excited about the all-beef franks as I do. Jack eats one and I consume the other four.

Cleveland scores two more in the seventh and another two in the ninth. Before the game ends, I hurry back inside to get five more hot dogs. “Why’d you get more hot dogs?” Jack asks. “There’s no way that you could still be hungry.”

            “At this point,” I say, “it’s not about hunger; it’s about taking advantage of a great deal. You’re a math teacher, you should understand. Fifteen hot dogs, at six dollars a pop, what’s that add up to?”

            “Ninety dollars,” he says without hesitation.

            “And I only paid fifteen. It’s like I just made seventy-five bucks.”

            “No,” Jack says. “It’s like you just ate fifteen hot dogs.”

            “Fourteen,” I say. “You had one.”

            “That’s still disgusting.”

The game ends, and there is little joy in Minnesota, for the mighty Twins have lost. We hit up a couple more bars and drink a couple more beers between the stadium and our stop. The sun has disappeared for the day and the temperature has dropped by ten degrees but it’s still in the 90’s and the heat finally seems to be getting to me.

We get on a bus and ride it for half an hour before realizing that we got on the wrong one and are traveling in the wrong direction. We get off at a gas station and call a taxicab. I drink a couple of Gatorades while we wait, but it does little to help. I begin to feel sick.

The hotel’s air-conditioning is a welcoming relief and within five minutes Jack is in his bed snoring. But I can’t sleep. My head hurts. My stomach is churning. I have heat exhaustion; there’s no doubt about it. I stumble into the bathroom and hug the toilet bowl like it’s a long lost friend, its surface, cool and refreshing to the touch. An entire day’s worth of fare is released, exiting through the same place it entered—beer and hot dogs and Gatorade and more beer and more hot dogs. I make noises like a dinosaur in heat and am surprised that Jack doesn’t wake. When I think it’s over I stumble back to my bed and try to lie down but within a minute I’m back in the bathroom, losing more hot dogs. What was I thinking? What kind of idiot eats so many Goddamn hot dogs? I won’t go into details, but a dozen or so half-digested hot dogs floating in a pool of water is not the prettiest sight in the world, and now the image is burned into my mind like bad 1960’s pop-art, and it makes me wonder if I’ll ever again be able to eat another hot dog, which makes me sad, because I really like hot dogs.