Sundays are decep-tively quiet in the town where I live. In the morning men cringingly nurse their throbbing hangovers with generous doses of tomato juice and Tabasco sauce, and then hurry off to church with their hastily groomed families in tow, usually arriving a little late. When church has run its course, they return to their homes tired and out of sorts, and take a nap, if circumstances prevented them from catching one during the sermon. Later, if there is a sporting event on, they immerse themselves deeply into that so they may engage vicariously in a contrived and distant thrill while they swill beer and devour anything loaded with empty calories and salt. In the evening, when it starts to settle in that tomorrow is a workday, they grow moody and restive. Another feeding frenzy begins. Frequent trips are made to the refrigerator and cupboards in search of snacks of questionable nutritional value. As the evening wears on, unflattering words are sporadically and off-handedly fired off with no particular victim in mind, and copious quantities of Alka-Seltzer are gulped down. Finally, in a last ditch attempt to stave off the inevitable, a frantic and futile effort is made to find something on TV that is the entertainment counterpart of what they’ve been eating all day. Around 10:30 p.m. defeat is begrudgingly declared. Teeth are brushed, spouses and children are kissed goodnight and the day ends, much as it began, with a creeping and haunting fear that this is as good as it may ever get.
No comments:
Post a Comment