The Large Man Chronicles

On a flight to Kansas City: April 6th 2015

“Honey, why do I have a middle seat, and you have an aisle?” asked the tall, athletically gorgeous, brunette woman with the perky (not pouting) breasts, as she moved past my seat to seat 6B. The tone of her question could best be described as indignant.

Honey replied, “I don’t know, Baby. I guess the computer just did it that way.” The tone of Honey’s reply could best be described as annoyed.

Honey was an almost equally attractive human specimen, packaged in the male version. He had dark, thick, curly hair…booth tanned skin, and well-muscled arms that were testing the limits of the banded short sleeves of his untucked royal blue polo shirt.

These two would be perfect for the cover of a magazine that might specialize in selling us shit we don’t need. Both pretty, but she was special.

Her non-pouting breasts were presented to her fellow passengers in a nicely fitting black tank top, and they would have been considered just short of perfection had they not been fake and outclassed by her amazing butt…this ass was spectacular. (I’m not talking about the dude she was with, I didn’t really know him yet) She encased these lovely glutes in a pair of heather grey yoga pants that coordinated well with the black tank. Because she finished the apparel package with a long graceful neck, a perfect nose, well set cheekbones, and vibrant light brown eyes, her scantily clad ensemble advertised pretty, not slutty. She had an aura of confidence that was most likely the result of a childhood full of participation trophies, a parent sponsored Psychology degree, good nutrition, and family and friends who always reminded her that she was awesome. I had deduced her entire psychological profile in the first 10 seconds of our soon to be dysfunctional relationship. That’s because I was a bit travel weary, and I’m a bit of a douche when I’m flying, even on good days. Baby’s and Honey’s visual charisma had the attention of everyone in the cabin, so naturally, I disliked them.

“Why would the computer separate us? You booked the tickets together didn’t you?” she pressed the issue.

“Yes, I did” he replied impatiently. The brevity of his replies led me to believe that he did not want to engage in conversation with this beautiful woman. He seemed uncomfortable and maybe a bit off balance for someone of his stature and importance, even if that importance was self-perceived.

Then, as Honey was apprehensively waiting for Baby’s next question, his discomfort increased exponentially as a Large man – I’m gonna say 350 pounds, grabbed the middle seat next to him – seat 6E.

So right about now I’m thinking that Honey might be rethinking all those extra reps on the incline bench, those last two squeeeeeezzzzed out military presses, and the countless dumbbell flies that he has subjected his pecs, traps, and delts to, becaaaauuuuusssse… his broad, bronzed, and chiseled upper body was now competing for the limited airplane cabin space with the soft and fleshy, gelatinous, mass of the co-passenger in 6E. I bet he’s also thinking that he may not have chosen wisely when he made the choice to put an aisle and another passenger (me) in between him and the woman he calls ‘Baby’.

So I have an aisle seat next to a thin, beautiful, if not 100% natural, woman. Her significant other is sitting across the aisle from me in his own aisle seat that he appears to have chosen for himself instead of her – and this action has caused his lady some irritation. It also seems like he may have chosen this arrangement strategically to have a “buffer” between himself and her. But now, it’s looking like the strategy may be backfiring as we are about to embark on a two hour journey, and he’s sitting next to a rotund and overflowing (but I’m sure very nice) row mate…with a skin condition. Did I mention that? Yeah, the 6E dude is a little flakey…but not in an emotional way, if you catch my drift.

Their conversation continues, and I am literally in the middle of their first world crisis. These beautiful people have to sit next to some of us who are less visually stunning (I’m talking about the big dude in 6E, I’m a very attractive man; everyone says so). The two of them began discussing how to resolve the crisis as if the Large passenger, and The Large Man (that’s me) weren’t even there. Bad manners.

“Honey, this is a long flight. Is there any way we can sit together?” asked Baby.

“I don’t know, Baby, do you think one of these guys will change seats with one of us?” was the reply of the strong and handsome man. He seemed terribly troubled and put out by all of this.

As a frequent traveler, and one who is wise in the ways of aircraft cabin comfort and logistics, and even wiser in the ways of love and making a woman feel cherished, I felt it was my duty to…umm… interject.

“Maybe someone would help you if you didn’t talk about us as if we weren’t here” I interjected while making eye contact with Baby, then turning to Honey at the end of my unsolicited advice. My interjection made the Large and fleshy man in 6E smile as he was working the keypad of his phone.

So Baby looks at Honey, as she points her thumb at me kinda hitchhiker style and asks, “Why don’t you ask this guy if he’ll change seats with you – aisle seat, for an aisle seat?”

Before Honey can respond, I calmly interject again, looking right in Baby’s eyes (and not at her boobs, because I don’t objectify women) and I ask, “Why don’t you just ask me? I’m sitting right here. Do you understand how rude and really weird this is?”

As abrupt and to the point as my words were, Honey still addresses the lady he calls Baby, and says, “I’m not going to ask, you ask.”

I want to make sure you readers understand, they’re not speaking in whispers, not even in lowered voices. They are speaking in completely normal, conversational volume, voices…I’d never seen anything like it, and I’m 55 and ½ years old.

So I turn back to Baby, and I just look at her (that’s the first time I really noticed how unique and beautiful her eyes were; more like an amber than a brown. Stunning, but I digress) and I wait for her question. I didn’t say it out loud, but I was thinking, C’mon, use your words, you can ask.

So she twisted up her courage, and looked just to the left, and above me so as not to make eye contact.

“Hey, would you mind changing seats with my husband, so we can sit together?”

Other than the lack of eye contact, and calling me “Hey”, instead of, “Sir”, or “Buddy” or even, “Dude” (Handsome would have worked too), her question was presented semi-respectfully. At the very least, it was a question and not a demand. I was kind of expecting a demand.

“Which one is your husband?” I replied. (If only for my own amusement, I found my reply equally funny and dick-ish…in retrospect, about 75% dick-ish)

She gave me an astonished stare. “Well him.” She pointed at the man in the aisle seat (of course). “The aisle seat. The one I’ve been talking to.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t know” I replied innocently (Dick-ishly)

I think she felt that now that she was communicating with me directly, I would fall under her spell.

She continued, “You both have aisle seats, and this way my husband I can sit together. It’s a long flight.”

“Why didn’t you guys book your seats together?” I asked. Her husband rolled his head back, and shook that curly topped noggin as he faced the heavens.

I was really enjoying this, but I’m pretty sure I was the only one.

“I think the computer just did it this way. So can you switch with us?” she asked again.

“No, I don’t think so” was my response.

She crossed her arms and faced forward. Honey quickly grabbed a magazine and just stared at it. I did nothing. Other passengers kept walking by, finding their way to their own seats, unaware of all the fun we were having in row 6.

About 30 seconds passed before she turned back to me and asked, “Can I ask why? Why won’t you switch with him? We’re going on vacation.”

I reply:
“Well, first of all; I travel all the time. I’m on a plane just about every week. I almost never get to sit next to someone as pretty and petite as you. I’m usually sitting next to someone just like me – Large and bulky, and barely contained by the seats we have here in coach. So simply looking at my options, I can sit next to someone young, small, and beautiful, like you, or I can change seats with your husband, and sit next to someone, well, more like me. I’m in control of this situation, and I pick you. No offense, sir.” I directed the last part of my reply to the Large(er) gentleman in 6E.

6E looks up from his phone and says, “None taken” with hint of a smile, then back to his phone. Baby smiled a little as well while I was acknowledging her beauty.

I continue, “Your husband, your Honey, can sit next to you anytime. The travel gods are smiling on me today, I can’t ignore them, it wouldn’t be right. Second of all, and I don’t want to start a whole thing here, but you guys were being kind of rude, and maybe even a little disrespectful as you were speaking about me and our other row mate as if we weren’t here. That’s just bad manners, I can’t nurture that with any kind of accommodation. Does that make sense?”

I look at her, and wait for a reply, she looks at me, blankly, and says nothing.

“And finally,” I say, “I have a hunch that you’re not used to people saying ‘No’ to you. I get the feeling you almost always get what you want, whenever you want it. You were exasperated at the thought of sitting in a middle seat…next to me. So in a way, I’m helping you. Life doesn’t always work out that way. Really, I’m surprised you’re not thanking me.”

Still no comment. The only response was that she turned away from me and shook her head. I think I may have made Baby angry. Honey never looked up from his magazine, but I couldn’t tell if I made him mad, or made his day. I guess I’ll never know, because despite my friendly attempts at conversation during the flight, neither spoke for the next 2 hours.

Just so ya know, I help less experienced travelers all the time. I’ll give up my aisle or window seat at the drop of a hat so kids can sit with sibs or parents. I give my preferred seats up for military peeps, older ladies or gentlemen, and strippers of any age. I’m a giver, and I give happily.

But this was a day to give a lesson and not a seat. I just don’t tolerate bad manners.

Thanks for reading.

Part One: Stuff Happens

What a trip. Details are always boring and just take up space, but in this case the devil is in the details. To make it easier on all of us, and to get to the point, I’ll submit an abbreviated timeline.

Sunday, March 1st:
I make a smart ass remark on Facebook to my dear friend, Patty, after she posts a few details of her nightmare trip to California. My comment had a “welcome to my world” theme.

Monday, March 2nd:
I embark on a 4 day revenue generation trip to Myrtle Beach. There may have been some unsanctioned golf involved. I believe that I have earned this interruption in my normal work environment because I am a hard-working ambassador for my company. I have a high opinion of my professional self.

My flight from Buffalo arrives early to Myrtle. Rare occurrence. Lucky.

Working days…all good.

Thursday, March 5th:

Arrive at airport 2 hours before my return flight’s scheduled departure – back to the cold and snow of the worst place in the world. I was pouting over my situation when I should have been rejoicing in, and being thankful for, my good fortune, health, spirit, life, etc. Bad juju.

Flight delayed 2 hours. 1 hour layover at my connecting airport. Uh oh.

Arrive at connecting airport. Home leg of trip also delayed 2 hours. Lucky.

Delayed another 30 minutes at 6:00 PM. This pattern repeats every 30 minutes until 10:00 PM

At 10:00 PM, gate agent announces cancellation of flight 1885 (my flight) to Buffalo.

At 10:15 PM, gate agent announces, “I am a human being, I made a mistake. Flight 1885 is NOT cancelled. We are waiting on a crew that will be here at 11:07. I apologize.”

I felt lucky, hundreds of people were getting flights canceled all around me. I was going home.

At 11:15 PM the flight is moved to midnight.

At midnight, fight 1885 to Buffalo is cancelled. Less lucky

Friday, March 6th: (but only 30 minutes later)

At 12:30 AM I am the next person in line at customer service.

At 1:15 AM I am in front of a customer service agent

At 1:30 AM I’m told there are no flights left to Buffalo for Friday March 6th.

I think it’s important for all of you to know that even at this point, I haven’t uttered one audible swear word. I was thinking them, calmly and coolly to myself, but the only thing the outside world saw from me was an understanding smile, and all they heard from me was, “Thank you”.

At 1:35 AM I’m assigned seat 5C for a 9:25 SATURDAY departure. (Still no swearing) And, after a little bit of aggressive “negotiation”, I was given a voucher for a local hotel. I was told my bags would not be available because of limited staff at this late hour. “They are on their way to Buffalo…”, and I would pick them up when I got there Saturday. This didn’t make sense to me, but I said, “Thanks”.

…and THAT’S when it got interesting.

WARNING: The following written account of the events that took place on the remainder of Friday March 6th, and continuing thru Saturday March 7th are explicit, in some cases disturbing, and might be upsetting to readers under the age of 85. This content is intended for mature audiences.

SECTION B: A Large Man Stranded in a Town That Doesn’t Want Him

Random thoughts as I walk away from the “Customer Service” counter:

A day and a half with only the clothes I’m wearing. Tommy John underwear probably rinses and dries beautifully, it’s a sheer fabric. I’ll be OK. I guess I could shop for underwear, but I can’t go back to old school…TJs have changed my life. I hope that young girl is OK. I do this every week, I know what to do and where to go, poor kid has never flown before, she told me her parents never have either…no one to call, nowhere to turn…scared and alone. Not gonna get much help from “Customer Service” from what I saw. I’m a stranger, I’m older, and probably a little creepy to a 17-year-old girl, OR guy for that matter. Sad world where you can’t simply help someone without worrying about them getting wigged out. I connected her with those businesswomen I talked to; I’m sure they’ll take care of her…hope she’s alright. I hope this (hotel that sorta rhymes with “Tostada”) Inn is decent. I wonder if cabs are running this late? This sucks. With an internal chuckle, I never should have poked fun at Patty.

As I start to pull up the phone number for the hotel, there is an announcement that says, “All passengers on cancelled flight 1885 to Buffalo must pick up their bags on carousel C 1”. My immediate thought is, YES! But then I kinda shake my head a little…what if I had already gotten in a cab. These people don’t seem to know what the fuck they’re doing.

Whatever…I pick up my bags. I’m happy. I will have a place to sleep, and I will have clean clothes to change into. If the hotel is nice, I can office in the hotel on Friday, get home on Saturday…this is not the end of the world. Stay positive.

At 2:00 AM I call the hotel, and “Yes”, they have a shuttle. “We’ll be there in about ten minutes, sir. Go to zone C”. I say, “Thank you”, and I go to zone C. But the ten minutes became twenty, and then twenty became twenty-five.

At 2:25 AM I got in a taxi.

At 2:55 AM I got my room key. I only had a voucher for 1 night. I asked if there were vacancies for Friday night. “Yes, but you gotta pay for it yourself. This voucher is only good for tonight…” I put up my hand to stop the clerk from giving me more reasons not to stay. I wasn’t sure what my future held, but I didn’t like the tone…so I didn’t commit. I’m tired, I’m cranky, I have to pee…not a time to negotiate.

At 3:00 AM I walk into the room set my bags down and race to the bathroom. Problem is, the door to the bathroom doesn’t open up all the way…because the fucking toilet is in the fucking way. Seriously – I push the door open to walk in, and I’m abruptly stopped. My forehead hits the door, then my nose smooshes against the door, then my lips smash against that very same door, kind of a rolling chain reaction from the top down. I’m worried that my nose is bleeding.

The toilet is sticking out so far from the fucking wall that you can’t open the door all the way. What you have to do, is open the door a little, then slide sideways into the bathroom, then close the door, then stand in front of the toilet. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? “No sir, we’re not! Will you be staying tomorrow? I’m gonna need that credit card.” Decision made.

I turn on the main lights in the sleeping area. Not good. There are a few pieces of gum pressed into the carpet, the ants don’t seem interested in the gum though. They’re marching past – straight through the room into the hallway. I’m too tired now to care. I lay down on the bed – with my clothes on – and I fall asleep.

At 4:45 AM, my 55-year-old prostate awakens me for another bathroom visit. In the fog of my slumber, I get up and head to the bathroom. I open the door, smash my head against it…again…nose and lips too, just as before. This is when I started crying.

At 8:30 AM my phone rang and a very sweet lady from the front desk told me that if I wanted to stay tonight I needed to book now.

At 8:31 AM I got out of bed and booked another hotel.

Then I went to an I-Hop across the parking lot. Pancakes were cold, eggs were undercooked. When I told the waiter about it, he told me … and I swear this is true…he said, “I didn’t cook your breakfast, sir.”

OK

Shower, thought about shaving, then I considered the frappe of airborne bacteria that had to be floating around the room. I simply could not risk a cut or a nick, so I chose the scruffy, “Bruce Willis” look.

Cab ride…new hotel…friendly clerk. Things are turning around. Maybe this town wants me to stay here after all!!

Not so much…

In all honesty, it gets a little better here. I took advantage of the hotel’s shuttle to get to lunch, to dinner, and then the next day to the airport. They were great, but they understand customer service, because tips are customary on a shuttle. The drivers were knowledgeable, friendly, and very appreciative of my cash tips. I went to a wonderful restaurant for lunch, and I was treated like an appreciated customer at The Burger Company in Charlotte. I made a point to speak to the manager about the outstanding people working in this restaurant, and I look forward to going there again.

Consider The Burger Company at 1500 West Morehead Street in Charlotte NC to be a Large Man certified establishment…I give it 5 thongs on the Large Man 5 Thong scale of establishments (TLM5TSOE) – there is NOTHING about that place I would change.

But sadly, The Burger Company was but a brief oasis, the eye of my hurricane of travel hell. My new hotel was darn near as dirty as the one I just left, but on the positive side, it cost a lot more. The desk clerk who checked me in was very sweet when she was taking my credit card, when I called to complain about the absence of hot water in my room, she might as well have told me that she wasn’t a plumber. Her second shift replacement was simply rude. So basically, more of the same. No love at the quite dirty hotel that rhymes with SlingThrill Treats.

Epilogue

I think the point here is that during this trip I came in contact with no less than 10 people who work in a customer service role, people who had an opportunity and the power to make my experience better. They had opportunities to make other people’s struggles a little easier too. They declined to exercise that power. Maybe they were tired, maybe they were burned out, or maybe they have been desensitized to the woes of the privileged traveler. Or, maybe they just don’t care…or maybe they just suck at their job. Through the entire ordeal, I felt like I just wasn’t wanted. I might as well been back at my senior prom.

Of the 10 people or so people who I had a meaningful interaction with, Kaitlyn at The Burger Company, and Susie B at the US Air ticket counter in Charlotte for my eventual outbound flight, listened to my situation, and they made it better…because they felt like that was their job.

Kaitlyn just gave me a cookie and a little note with a heart on it. Not ground breaking…but definitely  difference making.

Susie B gave me another seat.

On Saturday March 7th at 9:05 AM I sat down in seat 5C on flight 1942 to Buffalo. My bags were checked, my mind was at ease. 45 hours after I started the journey, I was actually going home. The chief flight attendant shut and secured the cabin door, and walked to my seat and said, “Mr. Dolinger, Susie at the ticket counter said you had some trouble getting home, and she upgraded you to a seat in First Class. Why don’t you grab your stuff and come with me.

She handed me the first class ticket, there was note written on the back of the ticket that read:

I’m sorry this has been such a rough trip. We appreciate your business, and I want you to keep flying with us. Thanks for your loyalty – PLEASE don’t give up on us!! Bad week for everybody!

Susie B

OK…I thought to myself. I guess that’s enough.

I sat down in seat 1C, ordered a Bloody Mary, and I went home.

Thanks for reading.

The Large Man

Your comments are always appreciated!! Tell me what you like and what you didn’t. There is a comment section here, or you can send a private note to thelargeman@gmail.com. Sharing on your social media pages, forwarding to friends and relatives…and publishers, is always encouraged and appreciated.

We’re going to attempt to make some t-shirts this summer. I have a $200 sponsorship that will go towards this production run. The Large Man Chronicles hopes to provide a quality, colorful, all cotton garment. Our goal will be to recoup our expenses and donate about $5.00 per shirt to The Sandbox at Madeline’s Place. http://www.thesandboxatmadelinesplace.com  If you are interested, send me an email or a private Facebook message. I’m hoping that about $22 – $25 will be the price range…the quantity & level of interest will be a factor.

Stay gold…

I hate this place.

This place, as in the town that I live in. I have never spent more than 3 days in a place worse than this town. When I describe where my family and I live to people who have never been, I tell them that every year we have one month of spring, one month of summer, one month of fall, and 16 months of winter. It feels like it hasn’t stopped snowing since the August day my family and I moved here in 2008…15 miserable years ago.

We live in this northwest PA town because the people I work for wanted us to live here as a condition of employment; our manufacturing plant and global headquarters are located here. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but in defense of my judgment at the time, when our relocation was suggested I was unemployed, broke, and a little hungry…I would have agreed to anything short of prostitution.

The first time I saw this little hamlet perched on the Allegheny River, it was in the spring (July). The trees were green, the streets were clean, the air was pure, and smelled of spring flowers, mountain streams, and opportunity. It was a fresh start. My family needed a fresh start.

The second time I saw this town, it was in the winter (February), my first day on the job. It snowed 20 inches that day…twice.

When I was a child I thought snow was pretty and fun. However, Corinthians 13:11 teaches us: When I was a child, I spoke as child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: when I became a man, I put away childish things. Like snow.

I think the best way to close the snow subject would be to put it this way; most of us get sick of winter, we all get a little stir crazy during the cold season. But every now and then winter gives you a break… a day where you can go outside and absorb a little vitamin D, put on a light jacket or a pair of sandals and feel the warmth of an Indian summer sun. Yeah, we don’t get that here.

Don’t get me wrong, this town is not without its charm. The 3 months of the year when it’s not winter are pretty sweet, if you don’t mind the rain.

So why do I stay? This is question is like a tiny pebble in my shoe that just won’t shake its way out.

I work in a support industry that serves the energy sector, and that sector is hot and healthy. My family and I have been offered a handful of opportunities to move away from this place that I hate, but we keep choosing to stay. They say, “Opportunity only knocks once”. I mean no disrespect to whoever “they” are, but I say, “That’s bullshit”. Opportunity knocks all the time, but it only knocks…softly, it doesn’t bang. It won’t camp out on your front porch and wait for you to answer, and it almost never beats down the door. But it will come back in a different form, shape, or size. If you don’t answer the first time, it will find you again, if you understand what it looks like…that’s been my experience, and I’ve seen it with others.

So I could go. We could go…and we still might go, but for whatever reason, I just don’t see it.

Because if we left…

If we left, my new employment opportunity might not be as secure, and as enjoyable as the one I have with the 113 year old, privately held, family owned company that I work for now. It’s not the best job in the world, but I’m a human being, I’m not a Triple Crown winning thoroughbred stallion who has been retired to stud at Calumet Farms, and is now charged with the task of creating future Triple Crown winners. So my current job is the second best job in the world.

If we left, we might move to a place where they don’t have a river running through the middle of town, and I wouldn’t get to travel a road that parallels the beautiful running stream of water for about 40 miles. Water always brings me a sense of calm…even if glacier sized chunks of ice are floating in it. Why would anyone want to leave the peace of a river?

We live in a regional hotbed of high school football – western Pennsylvania. The football field that our local team plays on is a state of the art facility, and rain or shine (and that usually means rain) the people of our town come out and support this team that they’ve grown up with. This is a small town – everybody doesn’t know everybody, but if they don’t, they know someone who does, so there is no anonymity for our players, their parents, or the coaches – that can be good and bad. It certainly adds a wrinkle.

I’ve sat with some of our young local hero’s parents; the passion, the pride, and the prejudice (the good kind) are something that’s always fun to watch or listen to. If you sit next to the mother of a defensive lineman, her kid gets held on every play. The quarterback’s mom insists that her child is roughed on every other down, and all incomplete passes are a result of either poor coaching, or ignored, ruthless, pass interference. Extreme prejudice (the good kind), that only a parent can know, fills our stands on a Friday night home game. I’m not like that, I’m objective in all matters, but it’s great to watch this prejudice (the good kind) in others. I would miss these “Friday Night Lights” if we left.

My daughter marches with the high school marching band on that same state of the art football field under those same rain soaked “Friday Night Lights” in the fall. Because our town is so small, she’s been marching with this high school band since she was in middle school – they needed bodies. I find this charming because I graduated high school with over 800 classmates, I think they may have even had cuts in my high school marching band; here they recruit kids from the middle school. My little girl is the lone piccolo player in this band, and she’s the very best musician on the field, most likely the best musician in the history of the school – maybe even in the history of the commonwealth of Pennsylvania. She just finished her sophomore season, and if she isn’t the drum major next year as a junior, I’m sure that someone is probably being paid off, or my wife and I haven’t played the proper political games. No prejudice here (the good kind) I just call it like I see it, through the eyes of a father who understands magic. I can tell you without shame that I still get a little misty every time I watch her out on that field…that little girl…my pigeon toed, marching baby girl is out there doing something I can’t do, something that I can’t teach her. It’s amazing. I might not get the opportunity to be home on Friday nights in the fall if I left this place. I would miss that.

My neighbors are always ready for a beer and a little fellowship come Friday evening – sometimes even on a Saturday afternoon or a school night. There’s always something to talk about; it can be as spirited and obtuse as the effect of strawberries on the male libido, or as mundane and simple as alternative uses for kitchen utensils. We speak on local politics, music, Jen’s next race, or our kids’ busy schedules. Most of our conversations and interactions are about as light and meaningless as a participation trophy, but in the 7 years that our family has lived here, it seems like all of us have had to count on each other for some help; even if that help was just a hug and some kind words of consolation. There are times when I have sneezed a delicate little sneeze in my kitchen, and I’ll hear Mark offer a “Bless You” from his back porch at the house behind us. We care about each other here. Will I find that somewhere else? I don’t know.

Our neighborhood is an area called “Hooktown”, we call our little get togethers “Hooktown Happy Hour”, or “H3”…we even have a logo and t-shirts and stuff celebrating our “hood”. All the other residents of Hooktown grew up together, having years of history with one another, and still our family was welcomed, unconditionally, pretty much the first weekend we lived here. If you asked them, they would tell you that we were accepted because our house is centrally located, we have a pool, and all the guys like my wife’s big cans. But it’s because they’re good people (our pool is only usable on the 3 days a year that it’s not frozen over). Who wouldn’t miss a group like this? You can’t leave something this special, unless you have no other choice.

We have a Bailey in Hooktown, she lives across the street from us. She’s a senior at the high school, she’s a stand out academic, she’s a captain on the volleyball team, and she’s as pretty as an ocean sunset. But mostly, she’s just cool. I’ll always remember her making a point to come over and give me a hug before I left for a business trip to Saudi Arabia, “…in case you don’t come back.” Sweet, smart ass, awesome kid.

Bailey was on the homecoming court this year because she’s beautiful and cool and smart. Because I’m absolutely prejudiced (the good kind) I was sure that she would bring home the crown on a Friday night in October (winter), under those lights on that state of the art football field I told you about…but she didn’t. When they announced a name that wasn’t Bailey, I was immediately thinking of how ridiculous it was, and who was paid off, and how soon I could remove myself from the Booster board of directors. But then I saw her face, and it was all good. This 17 year old “kid” showed more class, more maturity, and more grace than I will ever own. I was so proud of her, proud of the example that she set for my kids, and after having thought about it, I was proud of the example she set for me. Her display of class also reminded me that I wasn’t even on the Booster board of directors, and that I should stop saying that I am.

I don’t know if Bay was disappointed or not – I can only imagine that she would have to be, but I’ll never know, and it doesn’t matter. What matters is how she handled that moment, that split second…she handled it with a graceful and sincere smile, clapping her hands, and showing an appreciation for the moment – even if that moment sorta belonged to someone else. I won’t dismiss the honor, because if she had won, it would have been way cool – because winning anything is cool. But when all is said and done, this year’s queen is replaced by next year’s winner, and that’s how it goes. There are lots of Homecoming Queens, but there’s only one Bailey. I would miss her if I left.

I’ve met some truly amazing people in this town – adults (not grown-ups…believe me) and kids alike. The neighbor kids from around the corner, Ben and Callie, are two of the most creative minds you’ll ever see. They are a throwback to the time when playing in creeks, and building forts were daily kid activities…it comes from their artist mom. Their mom and my wife get together and laugh until they can’t talk – it’s like music. My son’s besticle, Marcus, can come up with more off the wall shit in a single conversation than I’ll print in the entire Large Man Chronicles catalog. Last month, Bailey’s younger sister, Kelsey, stopped me in the street downtown to give me a birthday hug – right in front of her teenage friends who couldn’t possibly think that was cool –Kels didn’t care, ‘cause she’s cool. These kids (even the grown up ones) keep me young.

There are few sights that make me smile more than seeing my neighbor, Phil, walking around the corner with his jumbo cold thermos mug filled with his drink of the day – he’s on his way to my house, or Bob’s house, or Barb’s, and I can tell by his gait if he’s pissed off (Obama), or jacked up excited (recently acquired concert tickets, a good day at work, good swim meet times for his kids) and no matter his “gait” the conversation that ensues never disappoints. I would lose that if I left.

And then there’s my boss, and his family, and my crazy, sick, talented coworkers, and my wife’s breakfast buddies, and her friends at the Y, my golf buddies, my Sunday night basketball games, and our theater, and our reservoir, and our 4th of July parade, and our Leek festival…there is a lot here, in this place that I hate.

And then…there’s Aaron. My hometown has an Aaron. Aaron is the spawn of the neighbors who live behind us. Aaron was a 3 year varsity football player who played under those lights and on that field I keep telling you about. I watched a lot of his games sitting next to his mom, Barb. The poor kid was held on every play, but he still managed to have a nice high school football career, and was a captain his senior year. I always like talking football with Aaron, the conversation started when he was in 8th grade, and it continues today. We agree, and we disagree, that’s the way discourse on sports should unfold. There is little point in any conversation, if we all see it the same. Aaron is one of the smartest kids I’ve ever met, and I always felt that I was something of a mentor to him.

Aaron is now in college at Penn State, and he seems to be adjusting well (and his mom is too…God help me when mine go away). He came home for the homecoming game, and it was the first chance I had to chat with my little protégé since he left for college. I was sharing some of my college stories with him, things I had hoped to study…business, with a minor in creative writing. I was explaining how my college experience didn’t work out, and how he should be mindful of the pitfalls that I experienced when I was his age. He looked at me and smiled, and nodded, respectfully.

“So what’s your major gonna be, Aaron?” I asked.

“Well, I actually just changed it to Molecular Biology with a Molecular and Cell Biology option”

“Oh” I replied.

I was pretty much done with the conversation at that point. I washed out of the strenuous business program at Northern VA Community College (pretty much, the 13th grade at the time I registered) so I’m not really gonna have a lot of relatable lab anecdotes to share with a “Molecular Biology with a Molecular and Cell Biology option” major.

But he wouldn’t let it die…

“Yeah,” he continues. “I just did a paper titled The Frequency of Genetic Recombination through Crossover of Sordaria Fimicola under Optimal Laboratory Conditions, that thing was a beast! But I got through it. Fun stuff.”

“Oh”, I replied.

And then I told him to go fuck himself. I didn’t want to do it, but he forced my hand with his “Genetic… recombination… Fimicola” bullshit. I felt like I owed it to him as his mentor. He took it well, but I’m thinking my “mentoring” days are over. It will be cool to see how this kid turns out, he’s showing some promise. If I left, I might miss it.

All the names I’ve mentioned here won’t mean much to most of you readers, but they sure mean a lot to me. I hope that fact makes this a relatable Chronicle, because I hope you have these things too.

All these people I’ve mentioned, from this place that I hate, are people I could call at 3:00 in the morning if I was in a jam – if I needed more than a “bless you” from the back porch. I could make that call without shame, or fear that they wouldn’t help. I’ve never needed it, I hope I never do…or they never do. But it’s a precious thing to have, and it’s not taken for granted…it’s a privilege. That’s a lot to leave behind in one’s quest for fortune and fame. Money doesn’t buy it, and cold, shitty, snowy weather doesn’t dilute or diminish it. I would miss that if I left.

This place is my hometown. I love this place.

Thanks for reading.