Poppycock

Getting drunk on an afternoon in Studio City
Placed among so many lonely wayfarers
With their kids, and snowcones, and megapixels
And what kind of lens have you got there?
Going on a run when it’s 90 + degrees in the dead of Spring
Thinking that it’s crazy to be slowly
Inducing such exasperating dehydration
...Goddamn, you must be out your mind, son!
(Though he could be my father’s age)
I exit the car and approach the bleachers
Son of Todd, daughter occasionally
Wearing a dress today
That’s liable to attract attention
I laugh and smile like it’s easy
Spread laughter, tell jokes, keep paces with the menfolk
Or just sit silently
Intent to watch the game in my unworn hat
Remembering the feel of the bat in my hands
The butterflies in my stomach every time I’d prepare to swing
I reminisce
As I am eyed and I feel lazy,
Uncomfortable and sleight
Lost of my power of sight behind shaded sunglasses
I am unable to describe to them my lethargy
Merely able to lay my head down on my mother’s lap
As menfolk pass by, sometimes inquiring aimlessly
Seemingly hitting on me
Others vaguely interested
Like being sniffed out by docile retrievers
That like to play ball, who enjoy playing fetch
The 9th inning comes after I have already reached the brink of madness and lost
To heat induced lethargy with which I cannot compete

At the bar afterwards, Joe T. asks why a college co-ed would refuse a beer
Limit herself to two
Play it smart
(oh only if you knew)
Yeah, I’m not that interested in beer
I want something nourishing, but then…
That first sip is so icy cold, such a good first drink
I think of funneling the alcohol down my throat with a syringe
Chilling my veins, shooting it up like liquid coolant under my skin
I am uninterested in this 30-something scene for comic loners
Some of them obscenely drunk on the patio
(Some of them, my father and uncle, age notwithstanding...)
I look past the fading couple
Sitting next to a drunk
They’ve got dogs
And we have our two Shelties, and Lyle, my uncle’s graying dachsund.
Rendered moot by stupidity and old age.
We are at the Oyster Shack
Only familiar from various photos taken when I’ve been away
It’s the first time I’ve experienced such a place
The place
For drinking after the game, infamous
I notice the Codgers pennant on the shelf above the bar
And almost as suddenly, I am asked to sign.
But beforehand, I am casually ogled,
Looked over with cautious tendency
Not to deny a glance, I return them with eyes a bit drunkenly
Distracted, but more so bewildered by my father’s arrogance and complacency

What?! I am silently wondering
You gave my number to Sean?
When, and why did this happen?
I’ll have to wait til the car ride to find out
To hear my father’s story,
That they were both (my parents) disappointed to find out that I wasn’t meeting anybody, so he figures why not?
In the event of drunken honesty, the frays in our perfect familial social fabric starting to show, he admits to the crowd that I am
Lonely,
unhappy, even.
Possibly enough to date one of these poor saps...
And anyways, Sean is a stand-up guy, he says.
He’s curious and he’s funny, I think.
Oddly, he lives in Echo Park and I’m almost certain he does the weathered or
well-seasoned hipster thing.
I haven’t met anybody like him, but nonetheless. I am uninterested.
His greasy beard, his Pennsylvania hideaway,
his standing as the all-around favorite among the men on the team.
I don’t care…
This was a year ago, or more most likely.
And besides, I’ve been seeing Nick.
Nonetheless, I can sense what the heat is doing
Making their vision blurry
Bringing on the hominy smile
I probably smell like bacon to them
Comfortable and homey.
A little wary of the consequences…
Or not.
Yeah, I’ve been here before
Attracting sad old men
Wistful for something they think they can’t have,
But Maybe.
Who knows what they’re really thinking
Lonely hearts club men
Some of them even married
Some at the game indifferent
I don’t like the ones I can’t touch
The ones that escape the heat and the booze
Before they let it get the best of them
But I pity the fool who pays attention to me
On a hot day in the San Fernando Valley
On a bleacher at the Studio City Park
At an unsteady table at the Oyster Shack
Where I drown my lethargy in a funnel of hops
And barely muster the energy to mask my indifference
Drag my dad out to the car
After a prolonged exit
After I pay my respects to my uncle
And finally, make it to the car,
Where mom waits and I shed my disinterest.