gloveactually
It was a cold evening, and I decided to do something I hadn’t done in a long time: just take a walk around Boston. The great thing about walking around Boston is that at any time, something can happen—and just then, on this cold, winter’s evening, something did.
It came in the form of a small, but unmistakable sound on the sidewalk in front of me. A slight splat, mixed with a gentle thud—a light material, colliding with a much harder surface. The man in front of me had dropped a glove, and didn’t appear to notice. I called out to him, twice, and still he kept walking. As I stood over his handless glove, a feeling of helplessness came over me. I had just witnessed another person drop his glove, and there wasn’t a thing I could do.
Or wasn’t there?
In another town, it would be perfectly acceptable to let it be, while a fellow citizen’s hand grew cold. In Hollywood, they’d probably just laugh and spit cappuccino on it! But damn it, not in Boston. In Boston, people are straight with one another. We may yell, we may curse…but I’ll be damned if we don’t pick up each others’ gloves. I decided I was going to return this one to its owner.
As I continued to call out, the man continued to trudge ahead. At least, I was pretty sure it was a man. Now that would explain things. After all, what woman is going to respond to a guy calling her “Sir?” Marion Jones aside, not many. Just in case, I tried a different approach: “Ma’am! Lady!” All that did was make me feel like a crazy person soliciting an invisible hooker.
It came in the form of a small, but unmistakable sound on the sidewalk in front of me. A slight splat, mixed with a gentle thud—a light material, colliding with a much harder surface. The man in front of me had dropped a glove, and didn’t appear to notice. I called out to him, twice, and still he kept walking. As I stood over his handless glove, a feeling of helplessness came over me. I had just witnessed another person drop his glove, and there wasn’t a thing I could do.
Or wasn’t there?
In another town, it would be perfectly acceptable to let it be, while a fellow citizen’s hand grew cold. In Hollywood, they’d probably just laugh and spit cappuccino on it! But damn it, not in Boston. In Boston, people are straight with one another. We may yell, we may curse…but I’ll be damned if we don’t pick up each others’ gloves. I decided I was going to return this one to its owner.
As I continued to call out, the man continued to trudge ahead. At least, I was pretty sure it was a man. Now that would explain things. After all, what woman is going to respond to a guy calling her “Sir?” Marion Jones aside, not many. Just in case, I tried a different approach: “Ma’am! Lady!” All that did was make me feel like a crazy person soliciting an invisible hooker.
As I continued to call out, the thought crossed my mind that maybe I was wasting my time.
As the wind picked up, I tried to rationalize the reasons this guy wasn’t stopping. Maybe he was talking on a Bluetooth. Maybe he was listening to an iPod. Maybe he didn’t speak English. What’s the German word for “Hey, glove guy!”
Maybe he had dropped the glove on purpose. Maybe it was some kind of timed-release device filled with poison gas, designed to kill thousands. What if he was in Al-Qaeda? I mean, we’d already had a shoe-bomber, why not a mitten-bomber?
What if this was all part of some elaborate prank? Part of some silly show hosted by Ernie Bach, Jr., where they spend an hour seeing how long somebody follows someone around, to the point of going into a full sprint—only to find out later the guy was in fact a planted Steve Prefontane, who had faked his death as part of a much bigger plan to meet Ernie Bach Jr.? Wouldn’t that be a good enough prank? Why did they need to involve me??
Maybe he was just a murderer. Minutes earlier he murdered 11 people, using that very glove to hold the poison-filled hairdryer (because he’d be creative), and now I was handling it, getting my stupid prints all over it. God forbid they find another Johnnie Cochran to try the case and tear me apart using rhymes. “If the glove’s on the ground, just let it stay down.” “If the mitten’s not yours, what you touchin’ it for?” All I wanted to do was help someone out, but nope, I’m Mr. Bad Guy, tampering with evidence, when some other loser could have come along and done it later while I laughed and drank wine with my girlfriend.
What was I thinking? I didn’t have a girlfriend. And I don’t drink. But the wind really was getting ridiculous, and I wasn’t about to break a sweat returning some dude’s glove. And so, as my target grew smaller still in the distance, I slowed my pace and caught my breath. It was over. I had tried.
Then, something caught the corner of my eye.
A girl was breaking down a souvenir stand. She had hats, pins, pennants and t-shirts, featuring each of Boston’s four major teams—the Red Sox, Celtics, Patriots, and Cheers. But it was one in particular that stood out: a green shirt with white print and a shamrock, and one simple message: Believe in Boston. And at that moment, it was my turn to believe. I believed in good karma; I believed in being a good person. I believed that if I really gave it my all, I could catch this glove-loser and make his week. Or his month. No—I would surely make his year.
So I took off. A hundred yards and countless burned calories later, I got within feet of him. I wiped the sweat from my brow, and in the proudest voice possible, yelled, “Sir!” Slowly, the man turned around.
Before me was an elderly gentleman, with wrinkled skin and bushy, gray eyebrows. 80, if he was a day. He had on a Red Sox knit cap, and looked to be the quintessential Bostonian. He wasn’t self-involved—he was just old! That’s why couldn’t hear me! As I walked up to him, I couldn’t help but imagine how happy this man was going to be. Walking along, all alone, and here I was, about to make his day—his month—no, his year.
I stepped forward, extended my arm, and presented him with the glove. “Sir, I believe this belongs to you.”
He looked down at the glove, and I detected a twinkle of recognition. He looked around, to gage his whereabouts. And, he took a deep breath, to assess the situation. Then, he looked me right in the eyes, and, in the thickest of Boston accents, exclaimed, “Keep it, ya queeah!” and trudged on.
As the wind picked up, I tried to rationalize the reasons this guy wasn’t stopping. Maybe he was talking on a Bluetooth. Maybe he was listening to an iPod. Maybe he didn’t speak English. What’s the German word for “Hey, glove guy!”
Maybe he had dropped the glove on purpose. Maybe it was some kind of timed-release device filled with poison gas, designed to kill thousands. What if he was in Al-Qaeda? I mean, we’d already had a shoe-bomber, why not a mitten-bomber?
What if this was all part of some elaborate prank? Part of some silly show hosted by Ernie Bach, Jr., where they spend an hour seeing how long somebody follows someone around, to the point of going into a full sprint—only to find out later the guy was in fact a planted Steve Prefontane, who had faked his death as part of a much bigger plan to meet Ernie Bach Jr.? Wouldn’t that be a good enough prank? Why did they need to involve me??
Maybe he was just a murderer. Minutes earlier he murdered 11 people, using that very glove to hold the poison-filled hairdryer (because he’d be creative), and now I was handling it, getting my stupid prints all over it. God forbid they find another Johnnie Cochran to try the case and tear me apart using rhymes. “If the glove’s on the ground, just let it stay down.” “If the mitten’s not yours, what you touchin’ it for?” All I wanted to do was help someone out, but nope, I’m Mr. Bad Guy, tampering with evidence, when some other loser could have come along and done it later while I laughed and drank wine with my girlfriend.
What was I thinking? I didn’t have a girlfriend. And I don’t drink. But the wind really was getting ridiculous, and I wasn’t about to break a sweat returning some dude’s glove. And so, as my target grew smaller still in the distance, I slowed my pace and caught my breath. It was over. I had tried.
Then, something caught the corner of my eye.
A girl was breaking down a souvenir stand. She had hats, pins, pennants and t-shirts, featuring each of Boston’s four major teams—the Red Sox, Celtics, Patriots, and Cheers. But it was one in particular that stood out: a green shirt with white print and a shamrock, and one simple message: Believe in Boston. And at that moment, it was my turn to believe. I believed in good karma; I believed in being a good person. I believed that if I really gave it my all, I could catch this glove-loser and make his week. Or his month. No—I would surely make his year.
So I took off. A hundred yards and countless burned calories later, I got within feet of him. I wiped the sweat from my brow, and in the proudest voice possible, yelled, “Sir!” Slowly, the man turned around.
Before me was an elderly gentleman, with wrinkled skin and bushy, gray eyebrows. 80, if he was a day. He had on a Red Sox knit cap, and looked to be the quintessential Bostonian. He wasn’t self-involved—he was just old! That’s why couldn’t hear me! As I walked up to him, I couldn’t help but imagine how happy this man was going to be. Walking along, all alone, and here I was, about to make his day—his month—no, his year.
I stepped forward, extended my arm, and presented him with the glove. “Sir, I believe this belongs to you.”
He looked down at the glove, and I detected a twinkle of recognition. He looked around, to gage his whereabouts. And, he took a deep breath, to assess the situation. Then, he looked me right in the eyes, and, in the thickest of Boston accents, exclaimed, “Keep it, ya queeah!” and trudged on.
I was all by myself. Freezing, flustered, out of breath, holding some idiot old guy’s glove like I was waiting to challenge that invisible hooker to a duel. And, apparently, I was a queeah. Damn, if it wasn’t great to be back in Boston.
CAUSE & EFFECT
England recently released its long-awaited UFO files, detailing numerous encounters with "alien" spacecraft. In the events the reports are true, and aliens are targeting our neighbors across the pond, here is what you could expect:
Cause: Aliens greeted at ship by Royal Family.
Effect: Aliens stunned to meet beings with bigger ears than theirs.
Cause: Aliens rename famous landmarks in their own honor.
Effect: Goodbye Big Ben; Hello Large Alf.
Cause: Aliens take over British international relations with the U.S.
Effect: A confused President Bush asks if because they’re British, aliens fly on the other side of the air.
Cause: Aliens conduct experiments on corpse of Keith Richards.
Effect: Corpse bids them farewell, smokes joint; resumes touring with Rolling Stones.
Cause: British excited after learning aliens can be defeated with toothpaste.
Effect: British disappointed after remembering they too can be defeated with toothpaste.
Cause: Aliens use high-powered gas in an effort to sedate the British.
Effect: Amy Winehouse not affected.
Effect: Aliens stunned to meet beings with bigger ears than theirs.
Cause: Aliens rename famous landmarks in their own honor.
Effect: Goodbye Big Ben; Hello Large Alf.
Cause: Aliens take over British international relations with the U.S.
Effect: A confused President Bush asks if because they’re British, aliens fly on the other side of the air.
Cause: Aliens conduct experiments on corpse of Keith Richards.
Effect: Corpse bids them farewell, smokes joint; resumes touring with Rolling Stones.
Cause: British excited after learning aliens can be defeated with toothpaste.
Effect: British disappointed after remembering they too can be defeated with toothpaste.
Cause: Aliens use high-powered gas in an effort to sedate the British.
Effect: Amy Winehouse not affected.
--JONOLOGUE--
The price of gas continues to soar. Gas is so expensive, today I saw Roger Clemens and R. Kelly carpooling to Chuck E. Cheese’s to hit on chicks.
According to the Boston Globe, more and more drivers have begun driving smaller cars--but it's believed most men only do so to compensate for a giant penis.
According to Variety, Comedy Central is bringing back The Gong Show. The first contestant hearing the gong: Hillary Clinton.
Jenna Bush selected “You Are So Beautiful” for her dance with her father. And for her dance with Dick Cheney, Jenna selected “Runnin’ With the Devil.”
In a new “tell-all” book, a memorabilia dealer is alleging that O.J. Simpson confessed to murdering his wife while he was high on marijuana. Today, Simpson denied the man’s claims, and promised not to rest until he finds the real stoners.
Entertainment Weekly has published pictures of Josh Brolin made up to look like George W. Bush in Oliver Stone’s upcoming presidential biopic. The President said he didn’t mind Brolin playing him, but still would have preferred his first choice for the part—Spongebob SquarePants.
The founder of Monster.com has created a website that will house online memorials to the deceased; the site is essentially a Myspace for the dead. In fact, I understand Keith Richards already has over one million friends.
Pulitzer and Nobel Prize winning author Toni Morrison gave Time Magazine the reason she called President Clinton the first black president: cataracts.
In an incredibly disturbing story, it was reported a 10-year-old girl in Idaho gave birth to a baby last month. And today, Roger Clemens spent the afternoon preparing his alibi.
Until whenever...
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