Tag Archives: short-story

Excursions

Introducing: The 12 Days of T-Shirts (Man Of Action edition)

Couple weeks ago we’re in the kitchen when Karry asks me about a charge on our credit card that looked suspicious. 

Read aloud the name of a company she didn’t recognize. 

“No, that’s me,” I said. 

Was kinda’ hoping that would end her curiosity. 

Had the opposite effect … like most of my good intentions.

“What did you buy?” she asked.

“It’s … a surprise.” 

As an aside … that’s pretty good for me as far as comebacks under pressure go.  

But it was late October. She knows I’m not that proactive with my holiday shopping. 

“What did you buy?” she repeated.

“A t-shirt,” I confessed. 

She: You bought a $35 t-shirt? 

While it might seem like a yes or no question, the answer … was nuanced. 

Me: No, I bought a $28 t-shirt.

She: (silence) 

Me: Seven bucks for shipping.

Karry tends not to put on her cheaters to appreciate nuance. 

For context, I love t-shirts. 

My family prefers the word ‘addiction.’

It’s my only one. 

Yep, T-shirts and postcards. 

And, um, books.

T-shirts are among the reasons I don’t get tattoos. 

I’m too easily seduced. 

I fall in love too frequently … and fleetingly. 

I mean, just when you see a design of a badass skull made up of tiny cats ($28 + $7 shipping), your feed serves up a silhouette of a man’s arm coming into frame to fist-bump a similarly silhouetted cat who looks like one of the cats who live in your house (Viktor).  

The family staged an intervention a few years ago. 

Unbeknownst to me, they harvested a bunch of t-shirts from my closet and had them made into a blanket … like parents do when their kids leave for college. 

They were sneaky. Did it under the guise of my birthday and presented it as a ‘gift,’ … which forced me to suppress my immediate reaction, which was along the lines of, “You did  … what ???!!!”  

Some (most) of the shirts were still in regular rotation … including one of my all-time favorites: the orange GI Joe “Man of Action (With Lifelike Hair)” number that I found in a comic book store in Houston, Texas many years ago. 

Joe’s head on the t-shirt had the same life-like hair as the action figure doll I had in the 70’s. 

Glorious. 

Over the years many wide-eyed smiles and fist-bumps from kindred spirits, most (all) middle-aged men, most (all) of whom proceeded to lose their sh*t when I pointed out that Joe’s coiffe was, in fact, life-like. 

At night, when I am under the blanket, I can sometimes hear Joe softly sobbing.

Since the thoughtful-birthday-gift-slash-intrusive-intervention (still stings), we’ve operated under an uneasy detente.

For any new t-shirt I bring into the collection, I must remove one from my closet.   

So I felt cornered when Karry called me out in the kitchen on my latest acquisition. 

“It’ll be my last one of the year,” I blurted. 

She: Yeah, right. 

Me: No, seriously, last one of the year. 

She: (silence)

Me: It’s only, like, two months. I can make it.

She: (silence)

While acknowledging that historical precedent would suggest, shall we say, an uphill climb, I pointed out that a little encouragement would, you know, go a long way.

She: You’ll never make it.

__

Couple weeks later, I’m downstairs when I hear yelling from the laundry room.

“Wait, did you get another t-shirt?”

While it seems like a yes or no question, the answer was … nuanced. 

At the storytelling thing in the city I went to the night before, Jacob the producer gave me the t-shirt I won a couple months ago. They were out at the time. 

I hadn’t bought it, so therefore had not violated the embargo. 

I assured her that my t-shirt fast was still holding strong. 

Then she did the thing she does sometimes … where she held her gaze a couple extra seconds without saying a word … letting me know she’ll be keeping an eye on me … until midnight strikes on Dec. 31.

Which I received as, you know, encouragement.  

Recognizing that I still have about four weeks to go in my fast — which, let’s be honest here, will be brutal for the holiday algorithms ramping up to tempt me at every turn — I thought it’d be healthy to channel my energies away from my feeds and towards counting my blessings, by which I mean the treasures hanging in my closet.

Which history suggests are only ever a stealthy intervention away from being permanently removed from circulation.

So I’m here today to officially launch the TWELVE DAYS OF T-SHIRTS … a celebratory ‘greatest hits’ retrospective befitting, you know, a man of action with life-like hair. 

The ones that bring me joy.

The ones that keep me in Cozy Mode as I clumsily navigate the world around me. 

The ones that I impulse bought in spasms of poor decision-making somewhere between my second and third Moscow Mules. 

Each one with its own story to tell.

Full disclosure: knowing that the odds of my following through to 12 are only marginally better than my resisting t-shirt temptation for the next four weeks … I will be receiving any and all feedback (including silence) as encouragement. 

Tomorrow: #1 Tuscan Serenade

Apologies in advance. 

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Fathers and Sons

Prayers Before Bed ….

Thursday night, Nov. 21, 2025 

Just saying Amen …

to a quick hot shower after running in the cold and wet at the track after sunset 

to air-frying the steak quesadilla Peter made last night and set aside for me … and savoring it standing up in the kitchen

to sailing down Green Tree hill and through the tunnels to receive a weathered city that only glistens at night

to having a pick of parking spots next to the park where people are still pickleballing under the lights 

to the luminous marquis of the old Garden Theater standing as proud reminder to never let our past define our possibility 

to walking into Alphabet City and finding it full, just as the mighty Alexis was preambling the evening’s program 

to grabbing the last seat at the bar, left open because it couldn’t see the stage … but it could see the drummer, which is exactly what you came to see 

to a septet breaking into Perdido breaking like a fresh egg over your week’s bowl, seeping down and through all the way to the bottom

to the drummer excusing everyone but the piano, bass and guitar, leaving them to Nat King Cole the shit outta’ Stompin’ at the Savoy, painting life so beautiful in black and white

to the trombone player’s tone on I Can’t Get Started, as full and warm as the bourbon in my second Soothsayer

to the piano player pouring himself Body and Soul, exploring till he found that chord he knew was in there, causing the sax player bowing her head to smile around her mouthpiece … and look up and over to him and nod 

to the in-betweens of the bandleader preaching sermons on St. Norman Granz and Jazz at the Philharmonic

to listening with an irrepressible smile of my own to 90 minutes of combinations, educations and improvisations orchestrated as neatly as a bento box, leaving me not full just satisfied

to driving back home in reverie in no great hurry

to pulling in the driveway pushing 9:30 and finding the outside light on and Peter shooting hoops 

to stepping into a rebound and dishing his layup 

to settling into old familiar rhythms

to knowing it’s in when it leaves your hand

to feeding him in stride and him splashing one after another after another

to seeing your November breath while staying out way past dark on a school night 

to calling it, but not before each ending on a make

because that’s the rule

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Postcards

Taco Night

I don’t remember if it fell across a couple years, or just one. 

Don’t remember exactly how old we were. Early 20’s I think. 

Don’t remember how often, or how many instances of it there were. 

I just know that when Bill would drop Taco Night on the calendar … 

… some of us would fast like it was Ramadan. 

Mrs. Sochko makin’ tacos. 

I remember the first time I attended … popping into the kitchen to say hello and thank you, and noticing she was pan frying the tortillas. 

In our house we just opened the box and took the shells out of the plastic bag. 

I remember thinking, “What is this sorcery?” 

I can’t even remember who all would show up. 

Just that there was always a table-full: Bill, his older brother Danny, and Mr. Sochko in their assigned seats, and the rest of us filling in the others. 

Looking back I can’t fathom the amount of provisions she must’ve secured in advance. 

I mean, the Sochko men and a table full of post-teenage boys.

I don’t remember her ever cutting us off.

If we were still eating, she’d keep making.  

The tacos were just the best. 

Mortals like me would fill ourselves full and tap out after seven or eight. 

Matt was usually good for a couple more. 

Bill, Danny and John? 

In another league. 

I remember one night in particular. 

Somewhere north of double digits Bill called it quits. 

Danny and John, though, kept goin’.  

Defending home court I think Danny took it as a point of pride. 

John, skinny as a rail, was simply enjoying himself. 

I think Danny tapped out around 14 or so. 

Meanwhile John just kept going … and going. 

I don’t remember how high he climbed that night. 

The number in my head is jumbled, like the way the older boys at Areford playground would keep track of their home runs back in a day. 

I only know that John’s performance that night cemented his Taco Night legacy for all time. 

__ 

For the record, Taco Night was one of two truly epic happenings hosted at the Sochko residence. 

The other: Trivial Pursuit. 

With Mr. Sochko.

While all of us enjoyed hanging out with each other, Mr. Sochko was the main attraction whenever we played. Big B we called him (he was a Bill, too). 

Though it’s been more than 30 years, mention “TP with Big B,” to any of us post-teenagers and watch the smiles conquer our faces. 

It wasn’t just that Mr. Sochko was the wisest person any of us knew. 

Oh my gosh he knew so much. 

It was how he delighted in knowledge.

The best part of our games was when he’d expound on the answers. I can still picture him peering over his glasses and smiling as he’d elucidate on a topic. 

His was the kind of smile that made you lean in as you listened.

The kindest of smiles.   

And we were as ravenous for Big B’s wisdom as we were for Mrs. Sochko’s tacos. 

Big B kicked our asses pretty much every time. 

I mean, he was a wizened citizen of the world playing with boys who didn’t yet know all they didn’t know.

But as I recall his record wasn’t undefeated.

What made that more special was that Mr. Sochko delighted as much in seeing one of us win (for the record, I’m not sure I ever won). In his congratulations he’d share the same generous smile as when he was sharing wisdom. 

There’s a wisdom in that, too, now that I think about it. 

To win a game of Trivial Pursuit when Big B was at table? Not sure our neighborhood offered higher accomplishment.

For me the common thread between Taco and Trivial Pursuit nights was that, in those moments I knew enough to know that I was in the best company.

My friends. 

Bill’s family.

I mean, the best company.

And that knowledge — that wisdom — is as alive and nourishing to me now as when we gathered around Bill’s dining room table.

I know some post-teenage boys — who now know what they don’t know — who would say the same.

And though Mr. and Mrs. Sochko aren’t with us anymore, in my heart it will always be a short walk to Connor Street … to lingering a couple seconds on the front porch before knocking, just to take in the scent of tortillas frying in the pan. 

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