“I used to have a marble collection, did you? I mean, it wasn’t much of a collection. It was just a bag of marbles, but some of them I really liked. One was an actual marble, not glass. It looked like the world, but not on purpose, just coincidentally. And it was oversized, but not as big as one of those giant jawbreakers.”
My friend talks to me via the app Marco Polo, an app where you leave video messages for friends. He’s in his car when recording, as he usually is, and my vantage is from his cup holder. As if I am a mini person from down there, I see his white semi-short beard, gray sweater and arms held outward, grasping the wheel.
Every so often, there is a tik-tik-tik sound of his blinker or an “Oh, you missed it. A little toddler, probably one, on the sidewalk with a parent stooped over. How cute. Kind of makes me want to be a Grandpa.”
He parks outside his office, and peruses his mind for any final thoughts. But he’s distracted by something above his head, pronouncing a long word, something with fleur, and bonunair. I learn he’s translating – very poorly – safety precautions for airbags in French. Then that’s it, and the recording ends.
“What’s a Turger Burger?” With Starlink down at home, I am taking the session I rescheduled due to Monday’s Kraken game at the office. Which is more than okay; working eight minutes away is just enough time to coast down a hill, see a Turger Burger food truck, and park the car.
It’s one thing to have a thought; it’s a whole other for the ear to take it in. Turger. Burger. Really?
As a competitive person, I need to set limits. Like, for example, at children’s Easter egg hunts. My imagination fast-forwards to the gun fire start, to the kids – and their horrible parents – mad rushing and stuffing their baskets way past the fifteen egg limit.
I don’t want to cause a scene or engage in my first-ever fight with a bonnet-wearing, white frilly-dressed, tight-curled, overflowing basket-swinging toddler. So I’ll smell the flowers, whistle Dixie and repeat my “All is well mantra” to stave off the lava blood boiling within.
Well, time for bed. Some good shut eye will prep me for brat spotting, I mean, tulip smelling.