June 28, 2011
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Jumanji.
It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon to evening. I took my best friend Caitlin Vitalo to dinner at the Flying Rhino here in sunny, sunny Worcester. She the spinach mozzarella panini, I the Mahi burger. We sat outside, the steady traffic of Shrewsbury St. in our ears, a former classmate, Kat, our bubbly waitress. We sat and chatted, drank our Miller Lights and eavesdropped on four mothers talking about how Selena Gomez and her sassy attitude were the end all be all of the future of mankind.
We decided to get dessert and walk to the Price Chopper to get a RedBox (the greatest invention of all fucking time). As we walk a kid who kind of looks like someone I went to high school with smiles a big meth-yellow smile. I go to shake his hand and he gives me the sweatiest daps ever, his hand felt like someone blew their nose into a wet nap. His eyes might as well be shut, his girlfriend, who dresses like she just graduated middle school in 1998, stands unamused and definitely not feeling like this sorry sack. Then doesn’t even go with the small talk, straight to business, “You know anyone who does Perc30s??” (30mg Percocet for those unsure.) “No I don’t.” “Ah well I got ‘em for days,” as he lights up a menthol cigarette.
On the walk back another seedy fellow, I must attract them, approached us. “I heard you guys talking, do you have any bud (marijuana)?” You heard us talking? You heard us having thoughts in our head and thought that we might have weed? ‘Hey guys I noticed you breathe and function like humans, do you have any ganja??’
Finally as the the sky turns pink before the Earth moved to another day we approached the actual highlight of this fantastic evening.
There was a table with an old, stained paisley cloth. On top of the table was a barrage of bric-a-brac: a small charcoal grille (on fire), 12 small glass candle holders on a silver platter, 3 small American flags, a tinier table, AAA batteries (scattered), folded dining napkins, a Monsters Inc. mechanical dancing toy, and a ripped cardboard sign written in colored Sharpie, “Happy Freedom Week, free hamburgers, Sprite and water (donations accepted for my pains).”
He introduced himself to us as Jumanji, “my father named me after one the 4 apostles.” He is wearing a dress shirt tied like a belly shirt, hair sprout every which way. He had pens and paper that made his shirt pocket bulge at least three inches (and it wasn’t because he was happy to see me wocka, wocka). I was then asked to enter his home to retrieve a plastic white cat to accept donations I was weary at first but figured I had to experience this. I first go into his bedroom which is the first right into the home. It didn’t shock me because I have watched so many episodes of “Hoarders” but the thing that really struck me was a poster board hanging on the wall at the foot of his bed that read:
“Dear Jumanji,
I don’t need you today, you can relax.
Love, God”
I came back outside and urged Caitlin that we leave, but not before he asked us for our names, finally. He then wrote down on one of the many pieces of paper in his shirt pocket the time at which he met us and who we were, but by name but by our actions.
“8:10- girl with birthday, man who got the cat.”
He saw us by our actions not by our facade that is our name. Thanks Jumanji.
