As torrential rain pounded through shingles and roofing, Don pondered all the things he had missed out on.  Was it love and marriage that blocked his dreams of seeing things meant left unseen, abiding by the same rule set as school boys and Amish, including all the grueling monogamous sex?  He followed his heart, and children soon followed, like raindrops following each other before randomly splattering across the rear windshield of a car careening in reverse towards certain doom.  Don pondered these things as he looked up from his clipboard with lineup sheets for the afternoons little league game.  While the afternoon sun gently danced through blinds in a swordfight of shadow and light, he marked and checked the lineup sheet as if he were some kind of Indian caste system auditor.  His wife of so many years peered through the blinds behind him and thought about her forgotten hopes and dreams.  Like the sun through a long sordid day, she too could physically watch time wind down with the sunset coinciding with your funeral. 
        "Who would come to my funeral?" she whispered to herself, peering out onto the street.  "Toni Morrison wouldn’t.  Neither would Neil Diamond, or Monet."  Pat loved Toni Morrison’s insights into the tribulations of not only minorities but her poignant coming of age stories.  She also adored the manner in which Monet interpreted the world around him.  Pat often tried to imitate his colorful strokes and composition in a far off time in which she was an aspiring art student.  Her art professor often complimented her on the structured turmoil that her paintings contained.  She cried after the inspirational end-of-year review and decided then and there to let nothing get in her way of becoming the next great artist of our time.  Of course she had these thoughts in that precarious yet exciting period in ones life.  It’s that time when one realizes how wide open life can be.  This new found frontier is often followed by a poignant change into a mystified, wide eyed adult child with everything to gain.  And like most, Pat’s ambition fizzled away until all that was left was a poorly drawn stick figure.  Once Pat lost the drive to be creative on her own, she lost the drive to better herself; or maybe even, become herself.      
        Don was lost in a world full of cheap ESPN news reports, whose allegations of steroid abuse and draft picks filled up the endless void left in his life over 15 years of a dull relationship, and kids he didn’t really like.  Ron Jaworski's in-depth football play breakdowns, Sportscenter's soap opera like discussions, and the sometimes tear jerking make-a-wish photo ops all kept Don in check and sane.  The mind-numbing commentary would run all day and night, with no interruptions (either from going to work, or interacting with others) if Don had his way.  Even his dreams contained semi-circle desks, with 4 rambling commentators spewing interjections and talking over each other’s opinion based facts.
    “I’m ‘ure Oprah would come if only s-she know of how interes-tin’ I am.  Maybe even Johnny Depp would t‘how his face, and beat the daylight’ out of Don in the parking lot and announce to my family ‘I lo’t my only true love!’ as Don lay bleeding and cursing,” she whispered eloquently as if speaking her memoir to a proctor.
    “What the fuck are you talking about over there Pat?”
    A deep, cold stare emanated from her face.  Her eyes were wide enough to be confused for a stalking cheetah’s.  She wanted to pounce on him and beat Johnny Depp to the punch.  She refrained and held silent, with no intention to answer his question.
    “What a Bitch,” Don mumbled below his breath, just loud enough for Pat to catch an audible “bitch.”  His silent anger is a trademark of his that is all too easy to detect.  Fellow employees and acquaintances (the closest he has to friends) all are well aware of the Don brand of glare.  The left point of his lip subtly points to the ground and his eyebrows shrink together, making his already unsymmetrical face even more so.  His smallish head peered from beneath his little league coach hat and shot laser beam eyes into her face.  You could cut the tension with a chainsaw.
        Keeping up with her new found vow of silence, Pat didn’t respond to the comment.  She rather continued her fiery stare, trying to burn into his soul and leave an indelible mark on it.  Symbolic or not, Pat felt she had arrived at a place where his raw comments could never touch here.  Oprah would surely understand that.  After her soul burning was complete, Pat nearly skipped her way to bed smiling as if she just won a battle.  She feels as if the silence says a lot more than her lips ever could.  She then lies in bed barely holding back the urge to sing a song she had sung as a child.  If only she could remember one of them.
    Don daintily shook his head and raised the corner of his lip to its standard half glare stance.  He turned his attention to the little league lineup before him; his own little kingdom in which 8 year olds would run and throw to his command.  It was one of the few things he controlled in his life.  And feeling quite aggravated at that moment, he decided to bat chubby outfielder Bobby Brooks 9th again, even though he had promised Bobby he would bat 1st if he came to every practice and worked hard.  “He is still the worst kid on the team, so he deserves 9th.  He needs to learn that hard work doesn’t get you places in life.  Slim-Fast does.”
    Don feels sometimes like he is playing a real life game of American Idol, Placing young boys in order of how good he thinks are.  Or even secretly numbering them by how hot their mom’s are.  Poor Bobby Brooks wasn’t only damned with a horrible knack for sports and social skills, but his mother was built like a heifer.  Regardless, this batting order sheet was his only escape to a place where he had all the control, the complete opposite of his real life.  Or so he thought.

            
    Tuesday, April 7th 1979

    “Don, your gonna be late!  Comon get yer shit together!”
    Don fumbled his toothbrush as he tried to lift it from the cheap sky blue and yellow toothbrush holder that sneered at him from across the sink.  His bulging stomach made reaching that far quite difficult.  He finally manages to push the toothbrush into the sink and begins scrubbing the leftover pizza and chocolate covered peanut chunks out from between his teeth.  He smiled and threw the toothbrush back onto the countertop.  Don never felt so important and needed as he did wearing his uniform.  Even though rarely did he field a ball, he was still part of a team.  Don proudly paraded down the stairs decked out in fresh cleaned cleats, and a shirt that has his name on the back.  It was the first shirt he ever owned with his name on the back.  Mom wasn’t as impressed.
    “I pay all this damn money for you to be on the team and you hardly ever play.  That’s an expensive fucking shirt you’re wearing.  You know I didn’t pay all that for just a uniform.” 
    The comments bounced off of Don like an errant pitch.  His teeth are clean and he is ready to play.  It’s the last game of the year and Coach promised him lead off position.  The word ninth sounded so ugly all year, and this was his day to shine.  The excitement and anxiety Don had for today’s game was so high, only a crushing incident could bring him down.
    Upon arriving at the dugout, Don waddled straight to the lineup sheet, only to see his name was absent from it.  “Fucking Timmy Wit is 1st?  Today’s my day to be number one!  That fucker is always first!” Don spewed from his dirty, dirty mouth.  Tears began to well up and drip to his jowl.  Maybe it was their weight that made the left edge of his lip begin lurch towards the ground for the first time.  The other teammates, with their innocent compassion, understood the depth of Don’s strife more than the coach.  The all looked with one eye towards Don as his outbreak continued.  “I fucking hate all of you!  I fucking hate you coach!”  The coach knew Don’s outbreak was completely unacceptable, as it scared his wife, as well as the other devoutly Christian mothers in the bleachers.  Before mentioning to Don that he intended to bat him first in the final inning, in the event that they had a sizable lead, he ordered Don to leave the dugout.                  

    Monday, May 12th 2008

    “It’s not about the pickle relish.  It was never about the fucking pickle relish, you just don’t get it.  You never got it.  How many times has this happened?  Last time it was Miracle Whip and Spaghetti-O’s.  God damn,” Don vented over a relish and Miracle Whipless turkey sandwich.  It’s dry white bread slices scraped over the roof of his mouth, and small pieces of it shot at Pat as he spoke.  Maybe Don is right, it’s not about the pickle relish, but it leaves one to wonder what life would be like with it.  “Why would you even call me from the fucking grocery store if you’re not gonna get what I want anyway?  What’s the fucking point?”
    “Fuck, I’m sorry,” Pat retorted with a sarcastic sneer.  “If I knew the damn pickle reli’h was so fucking important to you, I would have cleaned the store out of it.  But people forget things, and nobody’s perfect; Especially you.” 
    “Like I said Pat, it’s not about the relish.  It’s about you, you do this shit just to piss me off, I swear.” 
    “Whatever Don, if you want to fuck the reli’h o’bad go ahead!  Lord knows you haven’t fucked me in years.”
    Somewhere in Deluth, North Dakota, a respectable man named Vince peers over the latest batch of pickle relish mixing in a giant cylinder.  He has worked in the factory for over for over 15 years, and often wondered what kind of changes in the world this sweet dill flavored spread could facilitate.  Once one of his batches spilled from an overturned truck and covered the 76 freeway.  The relish nearly instantly froze in the sub freezing weather, creating a green, chunky sheet of relish ice that some believed resembled the Virgin Mary.  Today his relish may be the catalyst for a divorce without ever even leaving the store shelf.    

    Saturday, MAY 24th 1993

    The Bullseye Bar and Grill sign is rotting from years of neglect.  The dusty wind and scorching southern California sun have rendered its letters ragged against an orange dusk sky.  The old building is wedged between a custom car shop and Stillman’s woodwork gallery.  Old Stillman can remember the first days of the Bullseye.  He remembers when the sign was fresh and full of light and pubescent excitement.  Its letters blazed, gawking at the passing sun.  Inside the bar, remnants of its younger days, although well worn, can still be found.  The Brunswick tables have seen many sets of felt.  The evergreen walls bleed tobacco resin; it drips from ceiling to floor, leaving streaks of second-hand tar.  The floor is a battered combination of black and white checkerboard tiles and worn black carpet.  Frayed holes in the carpet highlight the area in front of the jukebox, where many lonely souls pour quarters to hear their lost love theme song over and over. 
The Bullseye has had one owner since its birth in 1969, and old, lovable Frank still mans the bar.  His short, chubby stature makes the scene complete.  He seems to have served the same drinks all these years, just to different people.  Frank has kept up a reputation of being the quintessential family man.  He has all the right advice at the right time, and can draw on years of successful family life.  He has helped patrons through breakups, breakdowns, divorces, marriages, pregnancy, and even occasional ‘coming out of the closet’ issues.  To his customers, Frank is, and has been the only counselor you’ll ever need.  Yet strangely no one has ever seen Frank outside of the bar.  He and his family had been invited to countless Christmas dinners and birthday gatherings outside of the bar yet never managed to attend.
Frank managed to put on a wonderful façade all these years.  The pictures of his family behind the register came with the frames.  He based their personalities on characters from late 60’s and early 70’s sitcoms.  He knew his wife’s name, what she looked like, even how she smelled.  His children, little Frank, and Clara, were as alive to him as god is real to most.  They were god to him.  His own little invisible family, of which he so desperately wanted, felt so incredibly real whenever he talked about them to his customers.  He would tell customers about Frank’s new little girlfriend, or Clara’s first period.  The loneliness in his heart was well hidden by his own ravaging delusional imagination.  His one-bedroom house had a warm living room, complete with plenty of room for little Frank, Clara and his wife, Sherry.  They would often accompany him while he watched more sitcoms, which in the early 90’s could not hold a candle to All in the Family.  Al Bundy just wasn’t a good family man in Frank’s eyes.
This Saturday happened to be a particularly busy one.  College finals are soon, and the youngsters want to get in all the pool playing, and beer drinking they can before they all head back to their respective mid-western towns.  The students lined up to wait for trusty Frank to open the doors.  He also is well known among the students.  They coined endearing terms for their drink bearer such as: Frank’n’beans and The Intimidator, and likewise cheered as Frank unlocked the dual doors.  The kids shuffled in like the first people to get into Disneyland and immediately reserved pool tables for their group.  One frail art major instead b-lined for the jukebox to kick the night off as designated DJ.  She scanned the tattered selections for vinyl of her choice; but nothing too offensive, as she didn’t want to give anyone a hint of her composed turmoil.  She inserts a pocket full of change and decides to play the entire Dark Side of the Moon LP, a good choice for a day that has a mystical air about it.  She felt electric today.  She had that rumbling feeling deep in her bowls that’s half sexual excitement and half extreme anticipation for the life that lie before her.  Next week is her last final of her college career.  She will be fully independent, with no overbearing boyfriend to hold her back like all her friends have.  Just the thought of the unknown made her pants tickle.  She felt warm and fuzzy without even having a drink.
“Oh shit, Pattys on the jukebox.  Get ready for a solid hour of Def Leopard,” Patty’s friend Joe commented.  “You know, if I hear ‘Pour Some Sugar on Me’ one more time, I’m gonna take a clock tower and start pickin’ off anyone with a mullet.  I’m serious this time; y’all read about a mullet massacre in the paper tomorrow.” Joe has been Patty’s partner in crime for the last two years of school.  They were responsible for the ground beef fight of ’91.  Yet, with accord to Joe’s personality, he never pulled the trigger and asked Patty on a real date; though he probably would have pulled the trigger on an unlucky Canadian mullet jockey passing by the wrong clock tower.  “Pink Floyd?  Thank god Patty, you had me, and the entire Detroit Red Wings, worried.”
The two of them bellied up to the bar and asked old Frank for a pair of import beers.  Joe and Patty have always been Frank’s favorite of his college patrons.  They are always polite and tip very well.  There has even been a time when Joe drunkenly confessed his love for Patty to Frank.  The Intimidator recalled a similar situation from an episode of “Good Times” and humbly advised Joe to confess his love to her, and to sober up first.  Joe slept in the passenger seat of his car that night, just to wake up and step outside onto a still steaming puddle of regurgitated Johhny Walker.  He forgot Frank’s keen advice and kept up his act.  Frank’s putty like nose and sunken eyes never were attractive to anyone, he thought.  “How could Patty see me as any different?”