My parents went to dinner with Jerry Sloan last week. I LOVE the Jazz, but my parents love them even more.
If you're wondering who the Jazz are:
So anyway yesterday Sloan resigned and I got my oil changed--a big day all in all. The guy helping me really didn't want to be there. He kept trying to pull up his pants, but his gut hung in the way. He looked like a ruffled owl and spoke in a monotone. "Welcome. You're the twelfth car today. Normally we have forty by now, but thanks for your business. This day sucks. Did I mention I have a migraine?"
"I have some Tylenol." I started digging through my purse. "Tylenol or coffee always help me when my head hurts."
He glared at me like I'd killed his favorite pet. "I've tried those, Ma'am. Both of them. Twice."
Okey-dokey. There was no helping that ornery fellow. He led me to the waiting area and turned on the T. V.. We listened for a moment as Jerry Sloan gave his resignation speech.
"It's crazy," I said. "My parents went to dinner with Sloan last week."
He turned and reminded me of a cranky war vet from an old folks home. "Really? Your parents?" He tugged his pants up again, fighting an endless battle--with his own clothes. "Your vehicle will be done in about twenty minutes. Just enough time for my headache to get worse." He lopped from the room and shut the door behind him.
"The Scribe," my oldest daughter sat next to me. Her eyes stayed on the door. "Do you think he knows someone that died?" I watched as another thought hit her. She gasped. "Did someone make him eat fish?" To her eating fish is worse than death. "He's not a very nice person."
"And his head hurts," I said. "But you never know what someone's going through. I probably wasn't very nice to people when Zeke was in the hospital. I was just really sad."
I thought of all sorts of things that could make that man so cantankerous. Maybe he hated oil, or maybe it was his kryptonite. How sad would that be, working around something that took away your power of happiness. I told "The Scribe" my theory.
"He should still be nice," she said. "Maybe he needs some hot chocolate. That's what I need."
I went to get her a drink and as I went out the door "The Pants Adjuster" said, "Can you believe she'd expect me to swallow a line like that? Her parents know Jerry Sloan?"
One of the other mechanics saw me and pointed. The color had been erased from his face. I smirked at "The Scribe" through the glass door and slowly got the hot chocolate. I stood there long enough that "The Pants Adjuster" would realize I'd heard him.
After they'd finished up with my van and I paid for my bill I looked at the man and said, "My parents really did have dinner with Sloan. I have pictures of it and everything."
"Fine then," he said. "Why do you think he resigned? Was it because of his history with the Bulls. Or something with D. Will?"
"Nope," I said. "Jerry just knew a time would come when he'd want to retire. Looks like that time came."