Read Online Confessions From A Coffee Shop by T. B. Markinson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: T. B. Markinson
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enormous bite of food. She eats like a surgeon operating on a brain: slow, delicate, and calculated. I could eat three meals in the time it takes her to eat half of one. Looking up from her plate, she added, “Don’t forget dinner with Phineas and my mother tonight. Six sharp.” She punctuated the word sharp by stabbing the air with her knife.
* * *
Leaving Fenway, I was on cloud nine. The game hadn’t started well for the Sox. In the second inning, Alex Rodriguez, nicknamed A-Rod, hit a homerun. In the third, the Sox were down six runs. Boston’s manager yanked the starting pitcher, Lester, off the mound. It was clear he was having a bad day at the “office.” The Yankees’ pitcher already had four strikeouts and no runs.
Dad and I contemplated leaving the game and having a late lunch. Losing was bad. But getting a beat-down by New York was hideous for die-hard Sox fans.
Then the Yankees’ manager pulled Sabathia, their starting pitcher, off the mound in the sixth since he thought the game was locked up. The score was eight to one. I could see why he felt safe. That’s when the game turned around completely. The Red Sox lit up one reliever after another. By the eighth inning, they led by two runs. In the ninth, the Yanks tied the game.
Ortiz hit a homer in the eleventh and won the game. By the time I arrived at the restaurant to meet Kat and her parents, I was in the best mood. Nothing was going to get me down, not even Phineas Finn.
I strolled in wearing my green Sox baseball hat and a large red foam finger that proclaimed the Sox were number one. Did I look silly? Absolutely! But I didn’t care. The Sox won—that was all that mattered.
Kat looked amused as I slid into the booth next to her. A child at the nearest table was eyeing my foam finger, so I happily handed it to him. His astonished parents thanked me profusely, and I was sure Kat’s parents were glad I had managed to rid myself of the silly thing. Phineas Finn, Kat’s father, was not a fan of frivolity.
A dentist, he seemed the type of guy who loved the music he played in his office—tunes that would make a coma patient hurtle out of bed and run screaming rather than listen to another Michael Bolton, Kenny G, or Celine Dion song. In fact, the only thing cool about Phineas Finn was his name. When I first heard the name, I loved it. I was a Trollope fan, so I asked if he were named after Trollope’s famous character. Dr. Finn stared at me as if I had lobsters hanging from my eyelids.
The name had been in the family for five generations, he told me. He was Phineas Finn the Fifth. I’m not making that up.
Furthermore, he had never heard of Trollope, and the fact that I compared him to a literary figure was a downright insult to their family, which was, according to Kat’s father, directly responsible for why Boston was such a thriving city today. Without the Finns, Boston would still be a backwoods town in the middle of a swamp.
According to Phineas, his family was the only one of any importance in Beantown. Forget the Adams—even if two men from that family became presidents of the United States. And don’t even mention John Hancock—he was of no importance. That massive John Hancock building on Clarendon Street? Didn’t mean a thing. Paul Revere was a “reckless man.”
The list goes on.
One of my first dinners with Kat’s parents was especially illuminating. After that night, Kat was terrified I would never want to see her again. For three hours, she squirmed in her seat while Phineas bad-mouthed all of the great names associated with the American Revolution and the founding of our nation.
All from a dentist! From the little research I’ve done on the Finns, no one in the family was a statesman of any type. They got their money from shipping, and, truth be known, piracy. The Finns of yesteryear were brave men who ran through blockades during the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812 and made a killing
* * *
Leaving Fenway, I was on cloud nine. The game hadn’t started well for the Sox. In the second inning, Alex Rodriguez, nicknamed A-Rod, hit a homerun. In the third, the Sox were down six runs. Boston’s manager yanked the starting pitcher, Lester, off the mound. It was clear he was having a bad day at the “office.” The Yankees’ pitcher already had four strikeouts and no runs.
Dad and I contemplated leaving the game and having a late lunch. Losing was bad. But getting a beat-down by New York was hideous for die-hard Sox fans.
Then the Yankees’ manager pulled Sabathia, their starting pitcher, off the mound in the sixth since he thought the game was locked up. The score was eight to one. I could see why he felt safe. That’s when the game turned around completely. The Red Sox lit up one reliever after another. By the eighth inning, they led by two runs. In the ninth, the Yanks tied the game.
Ortiz hit a homer in the eleventh and won the game. By the time I arrived at the restaurant to meet Kat and her parents, I was in the best mood. Nothing was going to get me down, not even Phineas Finn.
I strolled in wearing my green Sox baseball hat and a large red foam finger that proclaimed the Sox were number one. Did I look silly? Absolutely! But I didn’t care. The Sox won—that was all that mattered.
Kat looked amused as I slid into the booth next to her. A child at the nearest table was eyeing my foam finger, so I happily handed it to him. His astonished parents thanked me profusely, and I was sure Kat’s parents were glad I had managed to rid myself of the silly thing. Phineas Finn, Kat’s father, was not a fan of frivolity.
A dentist, he seemed the type of guy who loved the music he played in his office—tunes that would make a coma patient hurtle out of bed and run screaming rather than listen to another Michael Bolton, Kenny G, or Celine Dion song. In fact, the only thing cool about Phineas Finn was his name. When I first heard the name, I loved it. I was a Trollope fan, so I asked if he were named after Trollope’s famous character. Dr. Finn stared at me as if I had lobsters hanging from my eyelids.
The name had been in the family for five generations, he told me. He was Phineas Finn the Fifth. I’m not making that up.
Furthermore, he had never heard of Trollope, and the fact that I compared him to a literary figure was a downright insult to their family, which was, according to Kat’s father, directly responsible for why Boston was such a thriving city today. Without the Finns, Boston would still be a backwoods town in the middle of a swamp.
According to Phineas, his family was the only one of any importance in Beantown. Forget the Adams—even if two men from that family became presidents of the United States. And don’t even mention John Hancock—he was of no importance. That massive John Hancock building on Clarendon Street? Didn’t mean a thing. Paul Revere was a “reckless man.”
The list goes on.
One of my first dinners with Kat’s parents was especially illuminating. After that night, Kat was terrified I would never want to see her again. For three hours, she squirmed in her seat while Phineas bad-mouthed all of the great names associated with the American Revolution and the founding of our nation.
All from a dentist! From the little research I’ve done on the Finns, no one in the family was a statesman of any type. They got their money from shipping, and, truth be known, piracy. The Finns of yesteryear were brave men who ran through blockades during the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812 and made a killing
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