The Weird Insights of a Scobberlotcher

Twenty-three Sounds Dark Green to Black

Then there was Randy. That really was a bitch. He was 22. Wanted to be a pro hockey player. Spent two years in the minors before realizing he'd be better off the bus and back in school. Then one day, Bam! Terminal. He was so young and strong that it dragged on and on. He lad lots of family and a girlfriend who was right there till the end. But we got to talking when nobody was around and realized in a different time, a different place, we probably would have been friends. The bravest single fucker I ever met. Never blamed his fate on anybody or anything. Just kept trying to smile as he dwindled. I was away when he passed. A punch in the gut when I found out.

I remember our last conversation. He said, "Ya know my only regret?"

"If it's hockey, don't. They've done studies and it turns out excessive exposure to locker rooms lowers your I.Q. by fifty points. Worse than falling in love."

There was that weak little smile that refused to surrender.

"No. It's not about hockey. It's about not being around long enough to have any real regrets. Now that's funny, huh?" It wasn't but I didn't say so.

Sonofabitch. Promised myself I wouldn't do that. O.k., let's move on.