Hoops

I bought a basketball on impulse. This is a top of the line $25 ball. I put it in my trunk two months ago when kids were still out of school. Kids who were bigger than me and hogged the courts, even though I am a tax payer and have just as much right to use them, maybe more.
Truthfully, as we enter November, I still haven't used it. Every time I drive past the courts I contemplate parking and getting out and shooting a few hoops. I imagine myself at fifteen with moves Kobe would envy, able to hang in the air, bending my legs at the knees and stroking jump shot after jump shot, hour after hour. I couldn't dribble; I was a rebounder, crashing the boards, fearless.
Now I'm afraid I'll get out there and embarrass myself. Bounce the ball off my foot, attempt a few moves and fall down, throw a head feint at no one and get dizzy. Try to jump and barely get off the ground. I'll wind up shooting layups, standing two feet from the basket.
More than anything, I'm fearful someone will ask to shoot with me, ask to use my ball. Worse, more than one, a bunch of young men, angry and out of work, show up, take the ball, choose up sides, leave me out or don't toss me the ball. Since their day is free, they'll stay there for hours, long past when I want to leave. I will politely ask for my ball. Anything can happen. Knives could appear, I could get roughed up, maybe tossed in the bushes, perhaps they'll take my watch and wallet and sneakers and keys and car and my box of Ike and Mike candy.
So the ball stays in my trunk. I should have bought a tennis racket. Three old women looking for a doubles partner is more my speed. Unless they expect me to provide the balls.

Free

I am battling back by seeking out whatever is free. If banks and Wall Street want to come at me with fees and greed, I have options.
Free movies at libraries, free plays if I volunteer to usher, free samples at supermarkets, free massages and blood pressure testing at street fairs. Free meals at friends' gatherings, provided I listen to their complaints, practically free books at library sales, free art and photography if you photograph someone else's work when they aren't looking, free music outdoors by those who are slightly pitch challenged, free Shakespeare in the parks, though you can't hear a damn thing, free conversation with anyone relatively clean and cogent, free dance if you wait in Lincoln Center for Julliard students to show up and start leaping for no reason, free candy and t-shirts and hand fans and water at parades if you can fight off other spectators.
Free sports events if you enjoy watching little kids run in circles trying to kick or catch a ball, free drama when parents argue with officials, free comedy in parking lots observing out of shape folks carrying bundles to their car or trying to reach a shopping cart before a fit person gets there. Walking is free and comes with sightseeing, especially along the north Jersey waterfront if you appreciate the found art of crumbling piers and feral cats and rusted metal, free lectures by experts on just about anything.
Let's barter, bypass the whole system. I've got extra socks, hardly used. What are you offering?

The Gondolier

The gondolier refused to give his name. He was quiet, so very quiet. We, Elizabeth, my wife, and myself, assumed they would be like friendly tour guides. Chatting in a charming accent, informing us of the history of Venice, throwing in anecdotes. Not in this case. He wouldn't even look at us. So we entertained ourselves, waving at people on shore, taking note of the architecture, listening to music from the city's market place.
We'd been on our gondola for over an hour and both of us were getting hungry. It was time to return, especially with the sun going down. We didn't want to get lost trying to find our hotel. On three occasions we had passed other vessels and it seemed their gondoliers were singing and talking and laughing. Our sullen guy, tall, well over six feet, slim at the waist, wide shoulders, muscular arms and back, stared straight ahead, his aquiline profile ready to be sculpted.
Say, young man, I believe we should turn around and return. I spoke in what I thought was a firm voice. He ignored me. Elizabeth repeated my words, sounding perhaps a bit shrill. No response. It was dusk now; we saw no other gondolas. I thought he may have been deaf, so I stood up shakily and stepped toward him. Before I could open my mouth, he turned and faced me. His eyes were black oil spots; he slowly smiled, dropping his oar. Everything happened in slow motion. It took me a moment to see his incisors, two inverted pyramids, and I froze.
With his powerful hands on my throat and Elizabeth screaming, I told myself this is the part where I wake up.
Isn't it?

Quarters

The obvious solution to a lack of laundry quarters is to go to the bank. But I can't bring myself to do that, even at a bank where I have an account. I have trouble just asking diner employees for a quarter for the meter before I order lunch. It seems cruel to request bank tellers turn over a roll of quarters someone spent precious minutes creating and handing them a crumpled ten dollar bill in exchange.
You see, the washers and dryer at my condo are much cheaper than those at laundromats. For 50 cents your clothes really do get dried. But we don't have a change machine--fear of robbery I was told. I tried a number of sneaky moves involving outside establishments. One cranky old German woman demanded to see my wash when I tried to use their change machine. I told her it was in the car and spun on my heel to escape. Sometimes my beaten dollar won't be accepted, which means scrounging for other bills and time wasted. Get in, get out is vital when filching a laundry's quarters.
Now I go to the trouble of packing a laundry bag with dirty clothes, driving to the local place, walking in with my bag, getting my change, then sitting and reading the paper for ten minutes, like I belong. Then I leave, carrying my unopened bag, with no one the wiser.
I get my quarters, avoid confrontation and after awhile, the guilt vanishes. I save about $175 a year by using my washers and dryer. I guess it's people like me that are slowing economic growth. At least I'm not making my own cereal and bread.

Lost in the Valley

First they tell me I have to borrow at least $100000 and because I'll be getting extra money over the $88500 I need, the fee goes from $499 to $899. Then they suggest I apply for a $100000 home equity loan, even though my condo is worth only $110000. I fill out that application and send it in. Two hours later I realize how ridiculous that was. So I return to the bank with my refinancing application filled out. I am told the interest rate rose from 3.74 to 4.5% just that morning. I can still save $95 a month from the 6% I'm paying now, so I say let's send it in. Then I'm told my loan to value ratio has to be 75%. So for a $100000 loan my condo would need to be worth $135000. Not even close. Any assessment would kill that baby. So I wind up with this advice: try a savings bank. Their standards are lower.
Now when I hear a Valley National Bank commercial I gag.

At Twenty

At twenty I was in love with the mirror, savoring Rutgers, working part-time and taking care of my German Shepherd. I was trying to avoid being completely self absorbed and failing. I joined a fraternity and hated it. So much was happening in 1968 in politics, music, and society. I grew a fine looking mustache.
I wrote satirical pieces for the school newspaper and expounded on whatever floated around us. I was ready to enter the world as a mature, responsible citizen.
Where it went wrong I don't know. I switched my major from psychology to education. I wanted to teach. Then I got into a classroom and realized I didn't like kids all that much. I spiraled into thirty years of carrying mail. Perhaps I could have been an excellent psychologist, appearing in panel discussions, writing books, helping innumerable troubled souls. Maybe I would have gotten my own radio show.
At twenty I never thought I'd be staying out of everyone's way, keeping my opinions to myself. No, at twenty the world was my oyster, but somehow over the years the shell became more important than what was inside.

Eavesdropping

I can still fit under the furniture, crouch behind curtains, squeeze into narrow spaces, listening. I know where everyone is all the time. I can distinguish each voice in this house. Disease has left me mute. Too soon, my hearing will vanish, but I can still read lips. When my sight goes, and that is a certainty, I will still be able to smell the fear and, yes, the happiness. Illness will spread to my nose and then I will be left with only touch to discover the secrets around me.
That is why I have my hand on your leg. I'm practicing.