Disorderly Eating

"Oh, God," I groaned to one of the other parents at my youngest's baseball game.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"My whole family's here." Ignoring the Lovely Bride's glare, I gestured at the concession stand, where my oldest was working. My middle son had just arrived at the park and was trying, without success, to bum a soda from his brother.

Unfortunately, the middle kid saw the gesture and thought I was waving to him. He trotted over.

"Hooray," I muttered. "Life gets better."

"Hi daddy," he said, giving me a hug. "I love you." Several of the other parents looked a little puzzled by a high school boy hugging his father in public.

"He's at that age where kids start experimenting with drugs," I explained, earning another glare from the Lovely Bride. I ignored her and hugged him back. "I love you too, buddy. What do you want?"

"Nothing," he said, drifting away.

I checked to make sure I still had my wallet. "Okay," I called after him. "Hugs not drugs."

"Hope not dope," he called back.

Yet again, a glare from the Lovely Bride. I returned to the first order of business, heckling my youngest.

"They're letting him pitch?" I asked one of the other dads. My boy normally catches or plays shortstop and I felt a bit queasy watching him walk to the mound.

"Better you than me," he said. "My kid was awful in the last game."

"Did you make him sleep outside again?" I asked.

"It was raining pretty hard," he replied. "I let him share the kennel with the dog."

We cackled. His wife turned around and glared at us. Same story, different woman.

Distracted, I hadn't noticed the return of my middle son. He hugged me again.

"What's the matter?" I asked. "Can't you find your meth dealer?"

"He was sold out," he said. "Can I have money for food?"

I handed him some cash. "Get something I can eat," I said.

The Lovely Bride had been watching us suspiciously and heard my request. "Didn't you already have dinner?" she asked.

"I don't know," I said.

"Well, I do," she said. "Our oldest said he sold you a bratwurst."

"It was a low-sodium, diet brat," I said.

"Either way, it's the only one you get this week," she needlessly reminded me.

"You're mean as a snake," I told her.

"It's not my rule, it's your cardiologist's," she said.

"He's not a real doctor," I told her. "I'm pretty sure he's creating a human centipede in his spare time. I hope I can be the head, at least."

The middle boy returned with a bag of popcorn, interrupting our conversation. A good thing for me even if it was a disappointment for the rest of the parents, who were enjoying the latest episode of The Snags Go Out In Public.

I grabbed a handful of popcorn.

"Why are you taking my popcorn?" the middle kid demanded.

"It would be your popcorn if you'd bought it," I said. "That would require you to have money, which in turn would require you to have a job. You have neither. Therefore, because I paid for it, it's my popcorn and I am simply sharing it with you."

"I'm not old enough to get a job," he said.

"Of course you are," I told him. "You had a job last year. You were a soccer ref. It paid good money, too."

"I didn't like that job," he said.

"How is that relevant?" I asked.

"Why would I work at a job I don't like?"

"Because they pay you?" I suggested. Jesus, now my heart was starting to hurt.

"You like your job," he said.

"My job's fine," I said. "I went to school for twenty years and worked at a bunch of jobs I didn't like before I got this one."

"I don't want to do that," he said. "I just want a job I like."

"He is on drugs, isn't he?" said one of the other dads.

"So it would appear," I said.