A Note about a Hero
My coworker and compartriot, Clams Cosino, is a hero.
See, Clams went above and beyond the call of reason recently, and while that's not unusual, he did so on my behalf. On Saturday night, Jeggy and I were invited to Soldier Field to see the Bears play the Giants (in what I am told was a preseason game) by a generous coworker of hers. It was my first time visiting that venerable stadium with a funny hat, and I was not aware that I would be patted down by security prior to entrance. Naturally, I was carrying a good-sized pocket knife. Apprised of this fact, Jeggs suggested I divest myself of all such menacing objects and deposit my knife in the nearest trash can.
"Nay," said I.
Instead, I chose to hide it under a bush and creep back to it after the game. I do creep, on occasion.
So it went and so we went and the game was a success for the hometown team and everyone involved was very pleased, except, I expect, the hapless Giants. We had startlingly good seats--16 rows up between the 30 and 40 yard lines--and I ate an Italian beef sandwich and drank a domestic beer. Not so bad an August evening.
When we left the ol' gridiron (as I am told it is called), however, there was an unexpected obstacle to my reunion with my old knife. A security guard. Standing, more or less, atop the very bush where it was located. I had my own misgivings, but Jessica had more.
"You're not," she said, "going to crawl about at that man's feet and come up with a knife."
". . .Nay," said I, sadly.
The next day, as I related this story to one Clams Cosino, I could see him hatching something noble under his pale and dimpled scalp.
"I am going on a knife quest," he announced with the quiet dignity inherent to his being. "I am going to recover the lost knife!"
This struck me as overly generous, given especially my penchant for punching Clams in the kidneys, but I drew the fellow a map and promised him a wealth of Dr. Pepper for his success.
And he was. A success. A trifle bit rusty and with a dashing dirt patina, my pocket knife was back in my pocket.
Hats off to you, Clams!
See, Clams went above and beyond the call of reason recently, and while that's not unusual, he did so on my behalf. On Saturday night, Jeggy and I were invited to Soldier Field to see the Bears play the Giants (in what I am told was a preseason game) by a generous coworker of hers. It was my first time visiting that venerable stadium with a funny hat, and I was not aware that I would be patted down by security prior to entrance. Naturally, I was carrying a good-sized pocket knife. Apprised of this fact, Jeggs suggested I divest myself of all such menacing objects and deposit my knife in the nearest trash can.
"Nay," said I.
Instead, I chose to hide it under a bush and creep back to it after the game. I do creep, on occasion.
So it went and so we went and the game was a success for the hometown team and everyone involved was very pleased, except, I expect, the hapless Giants. We had startlingly good seats--16 rows up between the 30 and 40 yard lines--and I ate an Italian beef sandwich and drank a domestic beer. Not so bad an August evening.
When we left the ol' gridiron (as I am told it is called), however, there was an unexpected obstacle to my reunion with my old knife. A security guard. Standing, more or less, atop the very bush where it was located. I had my own misgivings, but Jessica had more.
"You're not," she said, "going to crawl about at that man's feet and come up with a knife."
". . .Nay," said I, sadly.
The next day, as I related this story to one Clams Cosino, I could see him hatching something noble under his pale and dimpled scalp.
"I am going on a knife quest," he announced with the quiet dignity inherent to his being. "I am going to recover the lost knife!"
This struck me as overly generous, given especially my penchant for punching Clams in the kidneys, but I drew the fellow a map and promised him a wealth of Dr. Pepper for his success.
And he was. A success. A trifle bit rusty and with a dashing dirt patina, my pocket knife was back in my pocket.
Hats off to you, Clams!
posted by jw at
9:39 PM
1 Comments:
I went into a courtroom, once, carrying a boxcutter in my purse and was shortly deprived of it. Now I have nothing to defend myself with when I ride the Red line.
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home