waitress who had a piece of dried seaweed stuck to her rear end. It seemed impossible that one piece of seaweed could hang on for that long. I felt like it was the first funny thing I’d seen in weeks.
After the meal, Kaz’s mother directed us to lie on the floor. There was only one other couple dining. She didn’t care what they thought.
We positioned ourselves prostrate on our stuffed stomachs. Kaz’s mother was just a little thing, not even five feet tall. She took the shoes off her miniature feet and then stepped onto us, one foot apiece. Then she began to walk in small steps, up and down our backs, strategically placing each foot on the right muscles.
“It make you digest,” she said. The same explanation she had intoned for years.
After dark that night, I got out of bed to adjust the AC. In the hallway I heard a pulsing gasp from behind the closed door of the guest room. I leaned towards the sound. It was Kaz. I was scared of what I was hearing. But still I listened. It was sobbing.
The next day Kaz bought plywood, two-by-fours, and power tools. He must have spent hundreds of dollars on those tools. They’re still in my closet, used only that one afternoon.
When he took me outside he held out his arms. On either side of my backyard stood a ramp of wood at a low angle off the ground. Each had a hole cut near its high point.
“Cornhole,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
Red and black beanbags filled a white milk crate. Kaz lifted two and threw. The first hit the board with a thud and slid off the end, but the second arced high and dropped straight through the hole. He turned and said, “Cornhole.”
I soon began to worry that my neighbors would complain. For days, the thump of beanbags on wood was constant. One night we played so long that Kaz eventually drove to Wal-Mart and bought a bag of glowsticks, which he placed inside the holes and along the edges of the boards so that we could continue into the darkness. My yard looked like it had grown two miniature alien landing strips.
I developed a highly effective technique involving a low bend and release. One Sunday we were eating breakfast at Dip’s, a family soul
food restaurant, and I said, “My butt is so sore from cornhole.” My butt really was sore. The diners around us turned, and I felt a strange and guilty joy, like I was playing hooky. That I shouldn’t be having fun.
“Let’s get our tickets,” Kaz said.
It was two days before Delray Beach. He’d been with me for almost two weeks by then. We were so conditioned to fly one-way internationally on a few hours’ notice that it was the only travel that made sense.
I said, “I need to think about it.”
“We have to move.”
“Give me another day.”
“We have to leave.”
“I gotta stay.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know!”
He looked around the crowded dining room, then sighed and stared into his grits.
“You don’t have to wait for me,” I said.
It’s not hard to find a doubles partner on short notice. As long as you get there in time and make the rankings cutoff, you can show up and just put your name on the sign-up form and see who else comes in. But Kaz didn’t have to resort to that. He got on the phone and had a replacement within the hour. Gentleman John Maxwell, who stood six-two and had legs that looked swollen with thick tendon and muscle. John was known for immaculate and obsessive control. He bullied partners into agonizing practice times, stretched workouts too long, arranged endless court schedules around his convenience. When he served, it sounded like a baseball being hit. He was top 50.
Kaz kept asking, “Are you sure?”
“Just go,” I said.
This was the start of my sleeping late and some of that other stuff. What I should have done is filed for my protective ranking
immediately, because every week you don’t play, you lose more points. But I kept planning to return in a week or two. By the time I finally filed, I had lost almost a third of my
After the meal, Kaz’s mother directed us to lie on the floor. There was only one other couple dining. She didn’t care what they thought.
We positioned ourselves prostrate on our stuffed stomachs. Kaz’s mother was just a little thing, not even five feet tall. She took the shoes off her miniature feet and then stepped onto us, one foot apiece. Then she began to walk in small steps, up and down our backs, strategically placing each foot on the right muscles.
“It make you digest,” she said. The same explanation she had intoned for years.
After dark that night, I got out of bed to adjust the AC. In the hallway I heard a pulsing gasp from behind the closed door of the guest room. I leaned towards the sound. It was Kaz. I was scared of what I was hearing. But still I listened. It was sobbing.
The next day Kaz bought plywood, two-by-fours, and power tools. He must have spent hundreds of dollars on those tools. They’re still in my closet, used only that one afternoon.
When he took me outside he held out his arms. On either side of my backyard stood a ramp of wood at a low angle off the ground. Each had a hole cut near its high point.
“Cornhole,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
Red and black beanbags filled a white milk crate. Kaz lifted two and threw. The first hit the board with a thud and slid off the end, but the second arced high and dropped straight through the hole. He turned and said, “Cornhole.”
I soon began to worry that my neighbors would complain. For days, the thump of beanbags on wood was constant. One night we played so long that Kaz eventually drove to Wal-Mart and bought a bag of glowsticks, which he placed inside the holes and along the edges of the boards so that we could continue into the darkness. My yard looked like it had grown two miniature alien landing strips.
I developed a highly effective technique involving a low bend and release. One Sunday we were eating breakfast at Dip’s, a family soul
food restaurant, and I said, “My butt is so sore from cornhole.” My butt really was sore. The diners around us turned, and I felt a strange and guilty joy, like I was playing hooky. That I shouldn’t be having fun.
“Let’s get our tickets,” Kaz said.
It was two days before Delray Beach. He’d been with me for almost two weeks by then. We were so conditioned to fly one-way internationally on a few hours’ notice that it was the only travel that made sense.
I said, “I need to think about it.”
“We have to move.”
“Give me another day.”
“We have to leave.”
“I gotta stay.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know!”
He looked around the crowded dining room, then sighed and stared into his grits.
“You don’t have to wait for me,” I said.
It’s not hard to find a doubles partner on short notice. As long as you get there in time and make the rankings cutoff, you can show up and just put your name on the sign-up form and see who else comes in. But Kaz didn’t have to resort to that. He got on the phone and had a replacement within the hour. Gentleman John Maxwell, who stood six-two and had legs that looked swollen with thick tendon and muscle. John was known for immaculate and obsessive control. He bullied partners into agonizing practice times, stretched workouts too long, arranged endless court schedules around his convenience. When he served, it sounded like a baseball being hit. He was top 50.
Kaz kept asking, “Are you sure?”
“Just go,” I said.
This was the start of my sleeping late and some of that other stuff. What I should have done is filed for my protective ranking
immediately, because every week you don’t play, you lose more points. But I kept planning to return in a week or two. By the time I finally filed, I had lost almost a third of my
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